Harry Potter and the Power of Magic
by LightGhost
Summary: Harry Potter lost his life in the final battle against Voldemort. While he is content in the afterlife, the higher powers are not, and he is sent to an alternative universe where his parents are alive and his sister is the Girl-Who-Lived. He arrives at Hogwarts as a first year, with a goal to conquer magic like no man or woman has ever done before him. Pairings still up for debate.
1. Rebirth

**Published: 01/01/2019**

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 **HARRY POTTER AND THE POWER OF MAGIC**

 **I do not own Harry Potter, the world or its characters. They belong to J.K. Rowling.**

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 **Chapter 1: Rebirth**

* * *

He was still falling. Falling through magic. A never ending drop through the indescribable, otherworldly substance he had come to love.

He felt blessed. How many got the chance to touch raw, unadulterated magic, like he was doing right at this very moment? A fabric of supernatural ability, wrapped comfortably around his presence. Soothing him, making him feel safe and content.

His life had never been easy. From growing up parent-less, abused by the Dursleys, to being thrust into a completely new, magical world were everyone expected him to save them. To fix all of their problems.

He never knew how people could honestly believe that _him_ , an untrained young boy, could possibly defeat the darkest Dark Lord in Britain's history. A fearless man who had accumulated over seventy years of unrestricted magical training, delving as far as anyone into the depths of the darkest arts there were. All of that knowledge, compared to his feeble six years of 'just average' magical education.

But now, everything was finally over. He had lost, and weirdly enough, it felt wonderful. The sense of calm and peace that permeated his every inch of existence filled him with satisfaction, even though he knew he had let everyone down, and inevitably failed his one and only task.

He had died. His soul ripped from his body, thrown into the space of in-between, on a journey to nowhere. And for once, as Mother Magic wrapped him in her protective arms, _he felt truly alive_. Hell, had he known what would wait him on the other side of life, he would have ended it a lot sooner.

Yet, as he drifted through nothingness and everything, he still felt like there was a part of him that never really got the chance to live, and he knew it all stemmed back to his upbringing.

He had never known his family, Voldemort had seen to that, and the family he had been placed with had never let him feel the love that should have come with it. And no matter how much he wanted out, no matter how much he had begged, Dumbledore had sent him back. Every. Single. Year.

He had been told that Lily's love for him was still alive through her sister, and would protect him while he stayed with her. He had been told that the power the Dark Lord knew not would be his power to love.

Ironic, really. His mother's protection had left him bruised, malnourished and abused, and how he supposedly possessed the power of love, when he himself had never felt the emotion, never loved and never been loved, he knew not.

Sure, he had learnt to know the hormonal urges that came with being a teenager, but familial love was something completely foreign to him. Only brought to life through his deepest desires, and distant dreams.

Familial love, he realised. That was what he craved. What he dreamt of. A mother and father who cared for him. Reassured him when things were difficult, helped him when things got tough, and complemented him for his achievements.

What he would do to feel like that, to have a family, to be loved. But he was dead. There was nothing he could do now. He was just another soul, lost in the depths of nothingness.

Drifting slowly away…

Forgotten by time…

…

He had been floating for what felt like forever, yet he was still unable to explain exactly the sensations that filled him at that moment.

He would never get tired of the mesmerising feeling, and he never wanted it to end, yet somehow, he knew it was just a question of time. He had for a fact been slowing down for some time now, and he desperately dreaded where it might lead.

He was so used to the perfect feeling, and could no longer imagine a life without it, yet somehow everything was fading away, and that harsh feeling that accompanied reality grew ever stronger.

He had felt so protected and at peace, but now it was all fading away, and as his last hope of staying here forever faded for good, he felt a tug on his body-less spirit, akin to Apparition, squeezing him through a tight tube, before popping him out the other end. And as he arrived where life, death or whatever holy being wanted him, he felt his mind connect with his body once more.

…

And his world lit on fire, as every nerve in his new body screamed in agony!

* * *

It truly was a spectacular sight, watching hundreds of owls taking flight at the same time, all eager to deliver their letters.

It was that time of year once again, when the Hogwarts Acceptance Letters, new book lists, as well as results for OWLs and NEWTs were to be delivered.

As the Deputy Headmistress, it was McGonagall's job to finalise the book lists for the upcoming year, and deliver it, together with the exam results, up to the Quill of Acceptance. Together with the Book of Admittance, the Quill would write out the different letters, which were then magically fastened to the Hogwarts Owls. Once all the letters were written and the owls were ready, they would take off together and deliver them to anxious students all over Magical Britain.

Dumbledore was watching the spectacle from the staircase leading up to the owlery, together with Professor McGonagall.

"Watching this never gets old," Dumbledore hummed appreciatively to the regal witch beside him.

She nodded her head briefly, before turning around and walking down the stairs towards the main castle. He knew that she had never truly appreciated such theatrics. She was an efficient woman, and preferred the company of her work. He had been like that too once in a time, but age had made him appreciate the little things. And one of those little things was watching the owls deliver their letters every year.

He continued watching the owls until they disappeared over the horizon, before turning around and following the stairs down, like McGonagall had done a few minutes earlier.

 _He too, had work to do._

With a slight spring in his step, he made his way inside the castle. He had many reasons to be happy. Normally the emptiness of the castle that came with the Summer Holidays would be what got him skipping about this place, but this time it was actually _how close_ the next school year was that got him fired up.

He took a left towards the main staircase.

Iris Potter would be arriving at Hogwarts come September, and something told him that he was in for quite the year. She was a celebrity here in Wizarding Britain, and her legend even stretched as far as into some of their neighbouring European countries. With the amount of exposure she was getting, and at her age too, there were bound to be some controversies. After a few quiet years, he was ready for some action.

And there was the fact that the girl in question happened to be the daughter of one James Potter, known for his troublemaking abilities, and landing himself in sticky situations. His previous year had not exactly been uneventful, that with the Weasley twins finally showing their more humorous side, but he was certain that they would never quite reach up to that of the Marauders. Yes, he had high hopes that Iris Potter would liven up the atmosphere.

The Duelling Tournament would also be starting up again, after a few years hiatus. It was Frank Longbottom who had first brought up the topic for debate, as part of his quest to immortalise his only son and heir; Neville Longbottom.

He had originally cancelled the longstanding tradition just after James and Sirius finished school. They had been winning the tournament for Gryffindor almost every year they attended, and brought loads of good publicity to the right people. But with them gone he feared his side would be up for some tough losses. Letting the more conservative pure-bloods win and gain popularity would undermine years of his work. The tournament would also just have served to train his eventual opponents in the art of duelling, something he would rather prevent. No, cancelling the tournament at the time was a wise decision.

But now that the Light were coming up with another generation of witches and wizards, it was as good a time as any to start it up again. Not to mention that three of the children were son and daughters of Sirius, James and Frank. He was certain that they would develop into fierce duellers, just like their parents.

The Dark side would be fielding a powerful line-up in the tournament as well, but he had confidence that the experience and competitiveness of the Light would see them victorious in the end. He had it on good authority that Neville was already showing great things, far above his age.

Arriving at the Grand Staircase, he took two staircases leading down, before following another staircase leading up, leaving him at the main entrance to the corridor of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor, on the third floor.

This year would be interesting for another reason as well, however. He had managed to convince the Flamels to borrow him the Philosophers Stone (for 'research purposes'), which he had 'accidentally' let slip were to be hidden at Hogwarts when he had asked Quirrell to take up the position as Defence against the Dark Arts, and he had now successfully managed to lure Voldemort into the castle.

He let his hand swish up through the air, wandlessly unlocking the door blocking his path, forcing it open. He was met with three low, angry growls as he stepped into the tiny room, but a quick spell from his wand froze the giant Cerberus, giving him access to the trap-door.

He had also designed an obstacle course for Iris and her friends for this upcoming year. Or rather, his _Professors_ had designed obstacles that he had made a course out of. It all started here, with the three-headed dog, and continued on with more easy obstacles that he had made certain first years could complete.

A powerful light burst from his wand, allowing him easy passage past Sprout's Devil's Snare.

If everything went according to plan, Iris and Voldemort would meet somewhere along the way, giving her the needed exposure and experience against the Dark Lord, before he could come to full power again. He was certain that this would be important for their war later on. The children would also get to play detectives throughout the year, which could only do good as well, even if it was all rigged.

He wasn't foolish enough to believe that they would manage everything without help. He would guide them along the way, and if anything were to happen, would be able to help. But they didn't need to know that. In fact, it would be better if they didn't.

He had entered Flitwick's room. The Charms Professor had charmed thousands of keys to fly around the room, where only the one correct key would give access to the next chamber.

He did not fancy a broom ride at the moment, so instead brought out his wand, moving it around in a complicated pattern, tearing down the wards protecting the door. He would fix them on his way back.

The stone would be hidden at the end of the obstacle course. While the first obstacles were only there to server as an illusion of protection, and were rather easy, it was really only the last piece of the puzzle, that he had designed himself, that would provide the real protection.

He had moved into a room with a giant chess board, curtesy of Minerva. To move ahead to the next room one would have to beat it in a game of Wizard's Chess. The chess board had originally been designed to always play the best moves possible. While it was a fascinating piece of magic, it would be too hard an obstacle for Iris and her friends. Luckily, he had made some changes to Minerva's notes before installing it. The board would no longer try to make the absolute best moves, but instead try to find the best move, as long as that move would also put it in a worse position than the opponent. It would serve the illusion of a worthy opponent, but also one that couldn't not lose.

But as much as he enjoyed Wizard's chess, he preferred getting this over with quickly. So instead, he played the worst moves he could think of. Moves that would make him lose as quickly as possible, but that would also force the magical board to lose even faster. A few moves later, and the match was over.

And as he moved on, his thoughts went back to the stone. He knew he was tempting fate here with this little experiment. Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel were fiercely protective of their stone, and if anything were to happen to it they would be absolutely livid. Which was understandable, considering it was the only thing that tethered them to life. But with their centuries worth of magical knowledge, they were not someone he wanted to cross. And while he was probably more powerful than the both of them combined, they would undoubtedly surprise him with some obscure, powerful magic lost to time, that he would have no idea how to counter.

A foul stench filled his nose, which could only really mean one thing. He had arrived at Quirrell's room, and in front of him stood a massive mountain troll, guarding the door to the next room. With a quick tap on the head with his wand, he became invisible, never stopping his brisk pace.

He had no intention for Iris and her friends to fight the mountain troll. He was banking on Voldemort taking it down for them. There was no way Voldemort would sneak past the troll like he was doing just now, when he also had the option to bestow his superiority on the massive beast.

By the time the troll could smell him, he was already past, and well into the next room. Severus had designed a quick riddle that would have to be solved to move on. Had Voldemort not ruined riddles for him, he would have enjoyed reading through, and solving it. But not anymore. With another two quick taps on the top of his head, he became visible once more, and a protective barrier rippled down to cover his body. The magical fire could do nothing more than tickle him as he walked through.

He had reached the final chamber. Long pillars adjourned the walls, giving the room a darker, more ominous vibe. In the centre of the room stood the Mirror of Erised, the last obstacle, and the one who would truly protect the stone.

The mirror was a powerful and dangerous artefact. The mirror was designed to reflect nothing but your deepest desires. And the more one desired that thing, the stronger the magic of the mirror became. He had made a lot of mistakes in his life. Mistakes that he still regretted to this day, and that had cost him dearly. His regrets only served to fuel his desires.

He took a deep breath, and steeled his Occlumency shields. When he had first found the mirror in the Room of Requirements, he had been caught flat-footed; bewitched by the visions it created and the memories it brought forth. It would not do for him to lose himself to the mirror once again. Not now, especially considering how he was about to perform advanced magic on a very volatile object, where everything other than perfect precision and concentration would see the stone and mirror combust into a powerful magical explosion, levelling the room and taking everything inside with it.

He stepped down the remainder of the long staircase, coming level with the mirror. It was old, with intricate carvings all along its frame. At the top stood the words, 'erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.' Which would, when read backwards, and moved the spaces around a little, reveal the ornate mirror's true purpose.

After another deep breath, he looked into the mirror. The last time he had looked into the mirror, he had seen his family. His sister, mother and father was not dead, and his brother didn't hate him. They were just a normal, happy family. Reflected back at him now, however, was only his plain old self, just as he stood before the mirror, his Occlumency shields actively blocking his emotions and desires from the mirror. For all the mirror knew now, he was the happiest man on earth.

Satisfied with his self-control, he withdrew his wand, preparing himself for what he was about to do.

He had thought long and hard about the problem at hand. He had to design a protection for the stone so simple an eleven-year-old could get past it without blinking, but that was also so advanced that Voldemort, a prodigy at magic, and one of the most powerful wizards since Merlin himself, would be left scratching his bald head.

He was proud of the solution he had come up with. One of his better ones if he had to say so himself.

 _Only a person who wanted to find the Stone - find it, but not use it - would be able to get it._

But it was one thing to think up a scenario, it was a whole nother thing to design the magical protection. He was not called the most powerful, and knowledgable wizard alive for anything though, and in the end he had settled on a modified Intent Ward and a simple Expansion Charm, that he could weave neatly into the mirror.

Because the intent being measured and evaluated by the ward was so specific, a standard Intent Ward would not cut it. He could probably have let his own magic improvise when creating the ward, and the result would most likely be adequate in any other scenario, but in the case that Voldemort didn't want to play his clever little games, all he would have to do was overpower the ward, which would then implode on itself. It would also be easier to take apart the arithmancy and deconstruct his defence in an unstable ward. An improvised ward, while easy and time-effective to set up, tended to be far too volatile for precision work such as this. He needed something far more stable when up against the powerful wizard.

He had instead decoded the standard Intent Ward into its core arithmetic values, and together with the arithmetic values of the 'intent' that he wanted to imbue on the ward, he had derived an arithmetic equation for a new ward that would allow his configuration. Doing it like this provided him with a stable and easy to cast ward, that would do exactly what he wanted it to.

Before he could set up the ward however, he would have to perform the Expansion Charm, and put the Stone into the mirror. It was a relatively simple charm for someone of his calibre. Slowly tracing his wand through the air, while clearly visualising the result in his head, he let his magic flow, imbuing his intent on the mirror.

Nothing about the mirror had changed visually, but he could feel the magic of the charm on the mirror. Reaching into one of the bottomless pockets on his robe, he wandlessly summoned the stone into his hand.

He moved even closer to the mirror.

Sheathing his wand, he pushed his now empty hand against the glass of the mirror. His touch sent ripples along the glass, but it did not prevent him from moving even further. Satisfied, he withdrew his wand, while moving his other hand slowly through the glass, carefully placing the stone inside the mirror.

Taking a step back, he brought out his wand again, carefully following the path and incantation for the Intent Ward he had derived earlier. He felt his magic surge through his arm and wand, letting him know that _something_ was happening at least.

Flicking his wand one more time, he quickly checked the arithmetic values of the actual ward he had just performed, and compared them to his theoretical values. Satisfied with that result as well, he connected the Intent Ward to the Expansion Charm. The mirror would now only open itself to those with pure intentions.

Lastly, he created a Pool of Magic, a hidden magical storage to power the ward, merged the mirror with the floor, in case anyone tried to levitate it out, and set up some quick detection charms to alert him if anyone came into the room. If anyone tried to overpower the ward to break it, the pool would just eat the excess magic and charge itself up. At least until it reached its capacity. If anyone tried to collapse the ward by draining it of magic, they would now have to drain the pool as well. Voldemort would most likely try to dismantle the ward by undoing the arithmancy however, but the perfect arithmancy and spell casting would give him enough time to make his way down before Voldemort was done.

No ward was infallible, and considering the ward was _designed_ to interact with the one trying to break it down, it was as good as it was going to get.

Satisfied, he made his way back through the obstacle course, and up to his office.

* * *

His last few days had been an absolute nightmare. Ripped from his peace and silence in his life after death, he had arrived in this room to waves of pain and hurt. The pain had not stopped, like he had first hoped. He had tried to move, but moving hurt. He had stopped moving, but standing still hurt. In the end, he had fallen down and cried. Cried to his hearts content. _But crying hurt_.

His eyes fluttered up to the windows once again, catching his own reflection. Before him stood a ruined boy, with arms and legs no thicker than twigs, with eyes of the dullest green… It was hard to estimate the boy's age. He had the size of a five-year-old, yet looked like a shrivelled eight-year-old. For all he knew, he might be even older. A life of neglect and malnourishment had ruined the young boy.

 _Him_ , he had to remind himself. He was looking at a younger version of himself, as hard as that was to believe. The scar was still there, and his hair and eyes were recognisable too. It pained him to see what he had become.

But was it truly him, if he had no memories from this body? If his entire life had been lived in another? Had he replaced someone else? Someone who's only wish it was to move on in life?

Had fate deemed him to a life of pain after he had failed the Wizarding World?

He had spent the first night crying. Begging every God he knew for forgiveness. But no matter how much he begged, no God came to answer his prayers, and he had only stopped crying when sleep took him in the morning.

It was first after waking up again close to midnight, that he truly began taking in his surroundings. He was in a small room, with a bed, wardrobe and table all crammed into it. It was just not any old room however; it looked eerily like a room he had seen before. If he was not totally mistaken, this was an Orphanage. The same Orphanage that Tom Riddle had grown up in as a child, before he became Lord Voldemort. The walls were the same mushy green, and the wardrobe looked exactly like the one Dumbledore had set on fire during his visit.

Harry had never felt much sympathy for Voldemort. The man had done unforgivable things. He had murdered thousands, including his mother and father, which had in turn ruined his own life. But he had never stopped to ask himself how he became the merciless murderer in the first place. Had it all started here, at this very place, through neglect and abuse? A small boy, scared of death, performing accidental magic to protect himself. It was easier to understand when put like that.

What scared him though, was that he was currently in the exact same situation. The same orphanage, treated poorly, and his only way out would be his magic.

To add to that, no-one had come to look for him yesterday. Not even to make sure that he was still alive. He could hear voices on the other side of the room, but nobody thought to check on him. Or maybe nobody wanted to? He was thin and fragile, neglected and malnourished. _Alone_. Had he not known better, he would have given up immediately.

But as it so happened, he had lived through years of neglect and abuse at his Uncle and Aunt in a previous life. And he had seen how everything had changed after he had received his letter from Hogwarts and entered the wizarding world, and he was certain that it would do so here again.

By his estimations from looking at his own reflections in the window however, it would still be a few more years until he was eleven, when his Hogwarts Acceptance Letter would arrive. But there was nothing stopping him from returning to the magical world earlier.

And thus a plan begun to form. From Dumbledore's memories of Wool's Orphanage, he knew exactly where it lay compared to the Leaky Cauldron. If he could only make his way there, get some money from his vault at Gringotts, and then bunker up at the pub until his letter would arrive. He would be set for money, food and a place to live, and could start treating his damaged body.

But there was only one rather big snag to that plan; there was no way he would be able to make the journey to the Leaky Cauldron in his current state. He could barely move without sustaining insurmountable pain, let alone travel around in the big city.

He knew of no way that he could contact the wizarding world without his wand, and while staying here. He would have to get to the Leaky Cauldron one way or another, and he would most likely have to walk there.

Either way, he would have to improve his body before then. And to do that, he would have to start eating again, It looked like it had been a while since the last time he had received any food.

And that had been his routine for the last few days. He would first wait until he was sure that everyone was asleep and the hallways were empty, before he quietly opened the door and tip-toed his way out of the room, careful not to make a single sound. Dumbledore's memory ensure he knew the layout of the building, and so making his way towards the kitchen was easy enough. Searching around in shelves, drawers, cupboards and the refrigerator, he managed to scrape together enough food to start his rebuilding process, while also not so much that it would be noticeable. Loading the provisions into his t-shirt, he would tip-toe his way back to his room and start on his meal.

His first few trips had been painful, but he quickly learned to ignore the screaming of his aching muscles. The only way to stop it was by treating his body to actual food, it would be stupid to stop because of the pain.

He had quickly realised that although he had to eat a lot to start growing again, his body was not accustomed to eating, and he had barely managed not throwing up the first day. Luckily though, he had found that his body was quickly improving, and after just a few days he could now eat considerably more than when he had first begun.

He had also started doing small exercises, like moving his arms and legs around in circles, or sitting down on the floor and getting up again. They were by no means anything heavy by normal standards, but in his new body they would hurt after few repetitions. But to be able to make it all the way to the magical pub, he would at least have to be able to move his joints around. The sooner he got there the better.

He turned back to his reflection in the window, catching the young boy's eyes. Appearance wise, he still looked like the same, five-year-old boy as he did when he had begun a few days ago. But on the inside, he felt a lot better. The pain had started to ebb, and he could think slightly clearer than when on an empty stomach.

He took a deep breath, centring his mind and focus. Things were looking up. It would not be long until he returned to the wizarding world, and now that he first though about it, he would actually have a massive advantage this time around. He had already gone through the first through sixth year at Hogwarts in his previous life, and would know loads more magic than his peers. And if everything went to plan, he would even have a few years to study magic on his own, in his room at the Leaky Cauldron. Even a few years to truly rebuild his body, maybe even build a bit of muscle.

He would even get another shot at the girls. Cho. Ginny… _Hermione_. There were loads of other pretty girls at Hogwarts too, now that he thought about it. Almost too many, in fact. He knew that many of the women used make-up charms, and probably had something special for their hair and perfume as well, making sure they always looked their best. He had even heard of a few who had turned to transfiguration to permanently enhance their appearance. Just another perk of the magical world, really.

But it also meant fiercer competition from his fellow male students. Was this how Cedric had turned so devilishly handsome all of a sudden? Or how Malfoy kept his hair perfectly sleek? Should he be doing that too? There were so many thoughts running through his head. He knew he had never really worked to keep himself presentable, or in shape for that matter.

But it had all started with his bad first impression. He had turned up small and skinny, and although it was not really his fault, it was not doing much to lament his magical superiority or public image as the Boy-Who-Lived either. Couple that with not actually doing too well magically in his classes, and walking around in Dudley's too-big rags on weekdays, and it was no wonder that the women were looking elsewhere. It had probably also something to do with his inability to pick up on their visual cues.

But this time he would be better. He had a lot more experience with both life and women this time around, and would not make the same mistakes as last time. He would work harder in his classes and broaden his social circles. But least of all, he would defeat Voldemort when the time finally came.

And so, with thoughts of pretty women and a brighter future, Harry fell asleep. Yes, things were really looking up for Harry Potter now.


	2. The Letter

**Published: 02/02/2019**

 **###**

 **HARRY POTTER AND THE POWER OF MAGIC**

 **I do not own Harry Potter, the world or its characters. They belong to J.K. Rowling.**

 **###**

 **Chapter 2: The Letter**

* * *

An annoying, loud, tapping sound filled the room, waking him up from his beautiful dream.

Harry groaned, and rolled over in his bed, trying his best to keep the details from leaving his mind. No matter how hard he tried though, it was all fading slowly away...

It had been about his parents, he knew that much. He also knew that it must have been a happy dream. Something about not waking up drenched in sweat, or with his heart furiously pounding inside his chest at least pointed in that direction. But what exactly the dream had been about, he had no idea.

Since Voldemort's resurrection at the graveyard in his previous life, he had been having constant nightmares. He would wake up sweating like crazy, rolling around in his bed and screaming his throat soar. Hermione, of course, had been worried sick. He had eventually managed to trick Ron into believing his nightmares were over just by putting up a few quick silencing charms. But while the charms stopped his dorm mates from waking up, it had no effect on his actual dreams. Hermione had not been fooled, however. She had always been too perceptive for his unconvincing lies.

He could still remember those days. Whenever he had closed his eyes, he would see the green light of the killing curse, as Voldemort murdered his parents, before turning his wand on him. It had made him sick, his own parents murder literarily etched into his eyes.

He could tell that this was not one of those nightmares. It had been a happy dream, he just knew it. His first memorable dream since forever. Then why did something have to disturb him just then?

He ground his face into his pillow in frustration. The dream was long gone, and reminiscing about his previous nightmare-filled life hadn't exactly helped.

The loud tapping sound filled the room once more. Three quick raps, although a little more aggressive this time. It was clearly artificial; someone wanted his attention.

As much as he would have loved to just ignore it, he would not be falling back asleep like this. Sitting up in bed, he looked around. Trying to identify the location of the noise.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the bright light that permeated his room. By the looks of things, it was very early in the day, which meant that he had only had a few hours of sleep; he still slept during the days. He would like this commotion to be done with as soon as possible, just so that he could go back to bed again.

But where was the noise coming from? Was someone knocking on his door? Nobody had thought to look for him during his past few days here, and a sudden visit now would be highly conspicuous.

Had they found him stealing from the kitchens? Were they here to punish him? Throw him out? He hoped not. Maybe it would be for the best if he just ignored the sound after all, and continue to act like he didn't exist.

TAP! TAP! TAP!

His head whipped around. That was definitely coming from the window. His heart skipped a beat when he saw what had been making the noise. Staring back at him were two big yellow eyes. And they looked _angry_.

Realisation quickly dawned on him, and he sighed in relief. There were some magical beasts with big yellow eyes that you did not want to meet, but luckily this was not one of them. Outside the window stood an owl, and it looked a bit irritated at being ignored for so long.

He made his way out of the bed and over to the window, opening it up to let the owl inside. It jumped down onto his desk, and stuck out its right leg dutifully. It did look a little indignant though, which was understandable, he wouldn't have liked being ignored like that himself.

In that sense, he had expected to feel sorry for the proud bird. He used to have a close relationship with Hedwig, which for big parts of his life had been his only confidant and the only one he could truly trust. Owls were a lot smarter than they looked and that the magical community gave them credit for, and he had a lot of respect for them.

But it was not regret for his actions against the owl that filled him then; tied to the leg was a thick, official-looking envelope, with Hogwarts' unmistakable wax seal.

Old memories came back. He remembered seeing the letter for the first time back when he lived with the Dursleys, wondering who could possibly want to write to him. He had been excited and careless, allowing Dudley to snatch the letter out of his hand and give it to his uncle. He thought he would never seen the letter ever again. Which was reasonable enough. Who wrote multiple, duplicate letters anyways? The letters, however, had continued arriving, but he had never been able to lay his hand on any of them. Vernon had outwitted his every attempt, and had even gone as far as to burn them in front of his very eyes, feasting on the despair and hopelessness he had felt.

It had hurt him more than he had thought was possible. Vernon's nasty smile as he threw the letters — _his_ letters — into the fire. Someone wanted to contact him, and they knew that their message had not reached its destination. It had been clear from his uncle's desperate attempts to stop the letters that it had to be something important. Something important _for him_. It had to be everything he had ever dreamt of, and more. Why else would Vernon decide to move the entire family out to a tiny, run-down shack in the middle of nowhere, just to keep the letters away?

But Hagrid had eventually come to the rescue and delivered the letter in person. He couldn't believe it at first. He knew the letter had to be important, but he, Harry, a wizard? For the first time in his life he had been able to make some decisions himself, and he had even made a few friends along the way.

And now he was presented with the letter once more.

With trembling fingers, he untied the envelope from the owl's outstretched leg, who took off quickly.

He took a few deep breaths to stabilise himself. There were no Vernon or Dudley to take away the letter from him now. In fact, there were no Dursleys here to ruin his life at all. Which lead to another, rather obvious question; why was he not living with the Dursleys? Had they dropped him off at the Orphanage, desperate to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the _freak_? He had originally thought that he had been sent back in time somehow, but surely by that logic he would have landed back in the dreaded cupboard at #4 Privet Drive? Did that also mean that he was not protected by the sacrifice of his mother?

He shook his head to clear it from the dark thoughts. It had happened a lot lately.

He looked down at the letter again. It was definitely addressed to him, a Mr Potter, living in room thirteen at Wool's Orphanage.

…

Hang on a minute… This meant that someone knew that he was living at the Orphanage! Right? They did check the letters before they were sent? In any case, Dumbledore would have a hard time explaining this away. After his parents death, the role of guardian had passed to the Headmaster, and by extension it was the fabled wizard's job to see to his safety and well being. Then, how exactly would the world react when they heard that his promise had landed the Boy-Who-Lived — their saviour — mistreated and malnourished in a small room at a poor Orphanage?

Putting the dark thoughts aside once more, he flipped the envelope over, and broke the Hogwarts seal. A shaking hand disappearing from view as he carefully retrieved the parchment inside. With another deep breath, he read through the letter.

He wasn't exactly sure what he had expected. As far as he remembered, the letter had been exactly the same as when he had first read it.

A sight of relief escaped him.

Things were definitely different this time around, though, but exactly how different were they? So far, apart from his living conditions, everything seemed the same. Dumbledore was still the Headmaster, McGonagall still the Deputy Headmistress, and if the book list was anything to go by, Quirrell would be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts again.

He yawned. It was time to go back to bed, he had only slept a few hours before the owl had interrupted him. He would deal with the letter when he next woke. He closed the window, before tucking himself in beneath the haggard blanket.

He had never expected the letter to come this soon. By his estimation his age would be somewhere between five and eight, not eleven. He thought he would have years before his reintroduction to the magical world, not days.

It all complicated things so much more. Now that he had a chance to essentially re-live his life, he wanted to appear smarter, more confident and most of all in control. By retaining his knowledge from his previous life he was obviously smarter than he had originally been at eleven, but then again he was also a lot weaker this time around.

He was ruined, there was really no other word for it, and his appearance was not exactly exuding confidence either, like he had hoped. Had he had a few more years, he would probably have been able to fill out a bit more. Now, he would be showing everyone a weak, small boy. He would have to shut them up with his magical prowess, until his state improved.

If anything, it was a sign of the extreme abuse this world's Harry Potter had gone through before his arrival. He had been thin living with the Dursleys, but he still got food. Here, however, that was not the case. The only food he got was the one he stole.

To be so malnourished that his body lacked several years of development, and at such a young age too. To be honest, he wasn't even sure if the damage would be fixable at this point. There was little Madam Pomfrey couldn't fix, and he hoped above all else that this was not one of them.

He felt sorry for the Harry Potter who had to grow up like this. A Harry Potter who didn't even know about magic, or that his entire life would change for the better over the summer to his eleventh birthday. But that Harry Potter was gone; it was his problem now.

With a body like this, how would he even make his way to Diagon Alley? His first visit together with Hagrid had been with the help of muggle transport, but all his consecutive trips had been through magical equivalents. He had no access to either of those in his current state, which really only left walking.

But in his current, broken state, he was barely able to walk back and forth to steal food from the kitchens, let alone cross London. It would only have to be a one-way trip, as he could bunker up at the Leaky Cauldron, but it was still far longer than he was comfortable with.

And even if his body could last the journey, he needed to know where it was exactly he actually had to go. He knew where he _thought_ it was, and he _thought_ he knew where the Orphanage was in relation. But if his estimations were accurate, it was rather far to walk. And if his estimations were not accurate, well… then he would be lost in London somewhere, with nobody to contact to boot.

Why did all of this have to be so needlessly complicated? Why didn't he just use the owl that had delivered his Acceptance Letter to deliver a message back to Hogwarts, saying that he wasn't exactly in a state to make the journey himself and that he would be ever so grateful for some help?

He still had over a month before he had to either accept or deny his spot at Hogwarts, though, which meant he would be able to postpone his trip until then if necessary.

It was definitely something he would have to think further on once he woke up.

* * *

The air was filled with the fantastic aroma of delicious breakfast, as he made his way into the dining room. Drawing a chair, he took a seat, and reached for the Daily Prophet. A soft pop could be heard to his right, announcing the arrival of one of their house elves.

"Daisy is wishing Master good morning!" the elf squeaked happily, handing the man a steaming cup of tea, and putting a few letters on the table.

"Good morning to you too, Daisy."

A bow, and a soft pop later, the House Elf left the room.

James Potter was looking bemused at the picture heading the main article in the Daily Prophet. Their trip to Diagon Alley yesterday had been far from private, which naturally meant that his eldest daughter was once again taking up the front page.

Reporters and photographers seemed to follow them wherever they went, desperate to get their hands on any and all juicy news regarding the Girl-Who-Lived, and her family. Since Voldemort's downfall, Iris had become a national icon, and an important topic for anyone who wanted to stay up to date on the latest gossip.

People were always whispering; wondering. Nobody knew exactly what had happened that night, only that their son Harry had died, and that Iris had survived. Voldemort had vanished, only leaving behind his cloak and wand, presumably dead. Dumbledore had acclaimed Iris the Girl-Who-Lived after her defeat of Voldemort, and people naturally wanted to how she had done the impossible, and also exactly how powerful she truly was. Until they got to know, however, they would have to settle on speculating.

The next big step as she built her legacy, was for her to acquire a wand, and she had just done that. Yesterday had therefore been a big occasion to their gossip-mongering community. This was the beginning of something truly spectacular. They all knew it.

In the picture, Iris could be seen connecting with her wand at Ollivanders. The moving image had managed to capture her expression perfectly, as she picked up the wand and felt her power flow through it. She had been stunned, naturally, the first time you truly felt magic, and how it flowed through your body, was always special. He could still remember connecting with his own wand back when he was eleven, but however empowering it had been, it had been nothing like _that_.

Iris' connection with her wand had caused a powerful, magical wind to blossom up inside the shop, making their hair stand on end, and an etherial light had painted the shop in a plethora of colours.

The spectators crowed under the powerful surge of magic. The display astonished them; they knew she had to be powerful to defeat the Dark Lord, and now she was finally showing her potential to the world.

But it had also been _scary_. _So very scary_. It was almost as if they could feel her power. _Oppressing them_. They _could_ , actually, where they stood in the shop. Her aura had been filling the room. _Suffocating them_. He knew that the feeling would be lost on the readers, but the crowd's reaction, which the photographer had managed to capture, was at least conveying a part of that message.

He prided himself in his magical strength and prowess. He had been the Grand Duelling Champion at Hogwarts during his last two years at the school, and had been undefeated in his age bracket every single year. His capabilities with a wand and natural instinct for combat, had led him to the spot as second in command of Magical Britain's Auror Force at barely some thirty years of age. But he too, had felt _inferior_ in that moment.

He knew it was only a natural reaction. Everyone had their aura extending while connecting with a wand, it was the wand's method of testing a person's worth and magical power. But no ten-year-old was supposed to have an aura _that big_ , not even his daughter's. Even Ollivander seemed a bit scared, and he went through similar shows almost daily.

She was by no means more powerful than him, not even close, but that was not his point either. She was _ten_ , soon to be eleven. How powerful was she going to be when she got older? When she hit puberty and her magic truly started growing? Was this how powerful Dumbledore and Voldemort had been when they were first getting their wand? Or were they even more powerful? There were so many questions. Questions their gossiping population would no doubt be discussing for years to come. So far, their trip to Diagon Alley had gone far better than expected.

The most shocking revelation, however, had come just after Iris' amazing display. As Mr. Ollivander described her wand and its magical affinities to his daughter and the press, he had also revealed its relationship to that of Voldemort's wand. They both contained a feather from Dumbledore's phoenix, the only two feathers Fawkes ever gave.

It was unheard of for a phoenix to connect with a human like Fawkes had with Dumbledore. They were powerful and proud creatures, and considered most humans beneath it. Fawkes must have connected with Dumbledore because of his power and skill, and it was rumoured that Voldemort had connected with one of Fawkes' wands because the phoenix saw the young boy's potential. And now, Iris had the other wand.

If anything, it only served to strengthen the "Girl-Who-Lived" theory. Iris was now proving to the world exactly how powerful she was, and the potential she had going forward. The newspapers would have a field day with this information, and the Daily Prophet had undoubtably reserved a few extra pages just for her in the issue he currently sat with in his hands.

He opened the first page, ready to read about his daughter, when the sound of footsteps announced the arrival of one of his girls. He closed the newspaper again, and put it to the side, cover up. He would read the article for himself later.

The most beautiful woman he knew stepped into the room. She had long, flaming-red hair that reached past her shoulders. Her eyes were emerald-green, and she had a sharp jawbone. Together with her ample bosom, fit body and long legs, she was always turning eyes wherever she went. However, he had fallen in love with her long before her breasts began growing or her curves had developed. She was smart, funny, dedicated, _and a Gryffindor_ , and he was proud to call her his wife.

"Good morning, Lily," he greeted her.

He got a smile in return. "Good morning, James." Sweet Merlin, he loved that smile. A beautiful smile for a beautiful lady.

Stepping into the room just behind her, was the same girl from the front-page of the Daily Prophet. While she had her mothers eyes, she had _his_ jet-black hair, although it looked a bit different on her as she kept it long and straight. She had a hard jawline, which, again, was most likely coming from him. That said, she reminded him only too much of a younger Lily, only with darker hair, and he was certain that she would grow up to be just as beautiful, or even more so.

"Good morning, Iris."

"Good morning, father." She went up and quickly kissed him on the cheek, before settling down in a chair next to her mother, opposite him.

He raised an eyebrow at the gesture, she didn't usually do that.

"Someone is in a good mood today."

Iris smiled, before eagerly launching into an explanation.

"I was up all night practicing with my new wand!"

He could see that she was practically glowing. He knew she had been waiting for this for a long time, and had been reading her mothers text books in preparation. She couldn't wait to learn all there was to know about magic, and there was no way she could allow anyone to beat her, another quality she had inherited from her mother.

"Magical Theory recommended that I start by attempting simple charms just so that I get used to the wand and with the concept of using a wand as focus for my magic. Simple charms is said to be inherently easier than simple transfigurations. It has something to do with intent. While I understood the concept, I have yet to try any transfiguration. I will read more about it later."

He couldn't contain a little laugh at her excitement. Yes, definitely inherited that from her mother.

She blushed slightly at his response. It was rather cute.

"Anyways, I had already read a few chapters into The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, to get to know a few spells and their theory. The first one they recommend is Lumos, the Wand-Lighting Charm, as it is one of the simplest charms we know of. All you really have to do is force some magic through your wand. Although you have to explicitly tell it to illuminate the tip of the wand, and not _ignite_ the tip of your wand. But you will be hard pressed to get it wrong, wands will try to mitigate any self-sustained damage according to Mr. Ollivander, anyways. The book also says that—"

He nodded along as his daughter talked, not really listening to anything she said. Then again, he had never really managed to listen to Lily or the Professors when they went into lecture mode either, he was more of a practical person. By this point though, he was far too experienced to get caught.

While Iris was talking, the house elves had popped back in to serve their breakfast. Lily thanked the elves, although she still did look a bit uncomfortable. While she had learned not to show her displeasure in front of the House Elves anymore, lest they think they did a bad job and had to punish themselves, the fact that they owned House Elves was still an iffy subject.

The reality was that they, as Magical Britain's most famous family, had a lot of responsibility and a public image to uphold. Social events were a big part of the world they lived in, and without the help from the House Elves, they would have their work cut out trying to juggle work, kids, social functions and the mundane everyday tasks at home; like cooking and cleaning. Especially considering everyone they were 'competing' against had House Elves.

They were also living in a rather large manor, and there was no way Lily was going to be able to keep it clean and cook all alone, on top of all her other responsibilities. It wasn't that he didn't want to help, but that he didn't exactly know how. He had lived with House Elves his entire life, and had always considered it 'their' responsibility.

The House Elves had come with Potter Manor, and that had also been another touchy subject. She wanted her children to grow up in a 'normal' home. Well, _her_ definition of normal at least. To him, growing up at the manor was completely normal.

Regardless, he wanted her to be happy, and so they quickly settled in at Potter Cottage in Godric's Hollow. The house was smaller and cosier. He had to admit, for a small family, living in a small house had actually been rather nice.

It had not lasted long, however. Somehow, Voldemort had managed to get through their Fidelius Charm, and tried to murder their children based on a prophecy. The only way the Fidelius could have broken was if either Pettigrew was dead, or he had betrayed them to the dark lord. Considering the man had not been spotted anywhere since, it was most likely the former.

As much as he hated himself for not being there to defend his children, it had probably been for the best. Voldemort had only been able to get to Harry, before Iris had somehow stopped him. Had he and Lily tried to defend them, they would surely have died as well, and Iris would have to grow up alone. Besides, Lily had been pregnant with Rose at the time. As much as he hated himself for saying it, it had all probably transpired for the best.

He took a few large, controlled breaths to stabilise himself from the thoughts of his dead son. Iris was in an especially good mood today, and he was not going to ruin it for her.

Lily had wanted her children to grow up humble, and seeing how she had ended up, she could not fault her. If that was the secret for his children to grow up into as perfect people as Lily, he was all for it. But after Voldemort's attack, everything had changed. Iris was famous, and by extension the rest of the Potter family too. There was also a question of security, and they could not risk the Fidelius another time.

His father had therefore offered them Potter Manor. Decades of warding had made it one of the most secure places available, and a large manor would only be too helpful when they would have to invite the rest of the upperclass to balls and parties, as tradition demanded of influential witches and wizards.

He blinked.

Iris seemed to be done with her monologue. She shuffled slightly in her seat, and brought out her wand. The fabled twin wand to that of Voldemort.

He couldn't stop his left eye from twitching slightly. It seemed she had kept her wand in her back pocket. Years of working as an auror had taught him why that was not a very good idea. Something it seemed he would have to imprint on his eldest daughter as well.

"Not while we eat," Lily said sternly.

Iris pouted, but relented, and put the wand back in her back pocket. His left eye twitched again.

"You can show us after breakfast," James said quickly. "That way Rose can watch too."

"Watch what?" Came a voice from the doorway.

A younger version of his wife stepped into the room. Flaming red hair, and the same mesmerising green eyes that all their children seemed to have.

"Good morning, Rose," he greeted her.

Rose massaged her eyes slightly with her hands, drawing the sleepiness out of them. It seemed that she had just woken up, most likely at Daisy's insistence.

"Good morning, father."

She exchanged greetings with her mother and sister as well, before settling down next to him.

At Rose's arrival, Iris quickly dug up her wand again, eager to show it to her younger sister, and tell her all about what it was like, and how she had acquired it.

Rose was a year younger than Iris, and would not be joining her at Hogwarts for another year. She had therefore decided to skip their trip to Diagon Alley yesterday. In hindsight, it had probably been a wise move. Apart from Iris reacting to her wand, the trip had been rather boring, slowed down more than necessary by the crowd and reporters. It would probably not help to bring a grumpy nine-year-old with them. Besides, she could always just watch the memory in a pensive later either way.

While Iris explained the important history behind her wand, Daisy had popped in with some breakfast for Rose as well, and after she had explained the highly dramatic events while connecting with her wand — ("wow!") — they all settled down to continue their breakfast, and normal conversation broke out.

Breakfast had been a quick process, courtesy of Iris' enthusiasm to show them her progress. She had only had a few hours with the wand, not counting the time she _should_ have been sleeping. He was not expecting anything revolutionary. Most likely a _Lumos_. It was the first spell any witch or wizard performed, as even Iris herself had mentioned earlier during breakfast.

They had gather around Iris as she drew her wand once more. And just like he had expected, she said the words and performed the movements described of the Wand-Lighting Charm.

A bright, white light appeared at the tip of her wand. It all seemed just too easy for her.

They clapped and congratulated her while she performed the counter charm.

While a rather easy charm, even for those whose first time it was performing magic, she had done it effortlessly. She would be a Charms prodigy, just like her mother. He was sure of it.

He summoned the letters that he had not been able to read while they ate breakfast, and stuffed them into his pockets, prepared to leave for work. As a high-ranking officer at the Auror Force, he usually had a lot of post to work through in the mornings, and nobody would notice if he slipped in a few personal letters as well. And even if they saw, they would be too scared too mention it to anyone. Such was the hierarchy at the Ministry.

He was forced to stop mid step, however, as his daughter reached down to place a small box on the ground. Lily, who had noticed his departure, was quick to drag him back to his previous spot; it seemed the show was not over just yet.

Iris took a long, deep breath, concentrating hard on the box. Whatever she was about to do now was most likely a lot more difficult than her previous charm.

She scrunched up her beautiful, little face in concentration, just like he remembered Lily used to do back when they were younger.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" she said determinedly, swishing and flicking her wand.

She had a lot more difficulty with that charm, which was to be expected. The fact that the charm did anything at all with only one night of practice was astonishing.

The box rose slowly into the air, wobbling slightly in its upward trajectory. As it reached the height of her wand, it slowed down to a stand still. Well, it would have been a stand still if you disregarded the increased shaking of the box. By the looks of things, the charm was taking a lot out of her, both magically and mentally, and a few seconds later, the charm broke and the box fell down on the ground.

She looked a bit put out that it didn't quite work like it was supposed to, but their cheering seemed to help slightly.

"It was supposed to keep floating…" she mumbled.

"Keep your head up. For only one day with your wand, I'd consider it a rather extraordinary achievement," he said to her. "It took me many days of practice before the spell did anything at all when I first started learning magic, let alone making something actually float upwards." He laughed a bit at the memory, and the fact that it had taken him so long, when his daughter had done it in less than a day.

His words seemed to cheer her up, if only slightly. He recognised that look on her face. She wasn't happy with her performance, and wouldn't be until she got it perfect. She didn't care that she had only had a day to practice on, or how long it had taken him to perfect the spell. The fact was that he knew how to do it, and she did not. She was just like Lily in that sense too.

"Besides, you have the whole day to practice. Many months in fact! Flitwick usually doesn't teach any spell without thoroughly going through the theory first, and there is a lot of basic theory to go through before you start to work on that spell."

He only realised his mistake when it was too late. She wasn't looking for more time, or being average; she was looking for results.

"And if you ask nicely I'm sure your mother wouldn't mind giving you a few pointers. To speed up the process a little, that is."

She seemed to brighten up a bit at this, before realising something.

"I promised to go see Neville again today."

"We can practice when you get back, or another day if you prefer. There is still a few more days before I have to get back to work," Lily said.

"In the meantime, why don't you ask Neville if he could show you," James added. "From everything you have told us about him, he seems to know his way around a wand." He winked for added effect, which only earned himself a sharp elbow from his wife.

She blushed a beautiful crimson, although his innuendo probably went straight over her head.

"He's just teasing you sweetie." Lily kissed the top of her head, glaring at her husband, who quickly ran for the fireplace.

"Oh gosh, look at the time! I'm getting late for work!" He shouted back at them, grabbing a handful of floo-powder from a pouch on the mantel.

"Say 'hi' to the Longbottoms for me!"

He threw the powder into the fireplace, which lit up in green flames.

"Oh, and your father expecting a perfect Levitation Charm by the time he gets back from work!" He added sternly. Hopefully she knew that he was only joking with her, he was already very proud of her.

Stepping into the green flames and speaking his location, he vanished for the Ministry.

* * *

As the world stopped spinning, she put one foot forward, neatly stepping out of the fireplace. Numerous portraits adjourned the walls, a testimony to the long-standing family of Longbottom.

She dusted off the little soot that had gathered on her skirt. She knew that her parents — and every other respectable witch or wizard — used the Scouring Charm to clean themselves after travelling with the Floo, but she had yet to try it out herself, and doubted she could do it now. Best to let the first time be in a controlled environment, lest she vanish all of her clothes in the process.

The sound of the roaring fireplace must have signalled her arrival, as light steps could be heard down the hall. A second later, a charming boy her age stepped out around the corner.

"Neville!" she said, wrapping the boy in a hug.

"Hello, Iris."

"I heard you were in Diagon Alley yesterday, how was it?" he asked, with that kind, considerate smile he always wore, all the while leading her out into the yard where they usually spent their time. The news of the Girl-Who-Lived's shopping-trip had been all over the Daily Prophet. She had seen her father with the newspaper during breakfast.

He always wanted to talk about her. Asking her how she was doing, complimenting her, and giving her presents. And it wasn't just 'The Girl-Who-Lived' he was talking to, it was _her_ ; Iris Potter.

She knew she shouldn't be enjoying all the attention. It was inflating her ego, something she tried her best to keep down. But she never told him to stop. They way he always said it, that crooked, caring smile. It made the butterflies inside her stomach come to life.

"I loved it! The only thing I have been able to do since I came home has been to read the books we bought or practice with my wand!" she answered quickly. He smiled, and let her continue. He always did that. Another thing she really liked about the boy. "I have even been able to perform a few of them!"

"That's fantastic, Iris. Would you mind giving a small demonstration?"

She shuffled a bit. "I guess."

It was hard to say no to the chance of performing more magic; last night had left her hooked. Then again, she wanted to impress him. Neville had been practising with a wand since before he was four, and had always excelled at everything he tried. She knew it was all because of hard training; his parents was really pushing him hard. But this also meant that she was nowhere close to his level. It was hard impressing someone who was objectively better.

She nodded her head to his question, with a bit more confidence this time, and fished her wand out of her back pocket. Neville blinked, but didn't comment any further.

The first charm was rather easy, but she would still give it her all. This was not the time to experiment with the parameters.

"Lumos!"

A bright, white light sprang forth from her wand, almost blinding the two. "Nox!" she called quickly, and the light vanished. She might have overdone it a bit in her haste to impress.

"That was a really powerful Lumos," he said. Smiling at her. He was always smiling at her.

She blushed. "Thanks."

The moment had definitely been awkward had it been anyone else than Neville on the other side. Neville had that ability to make every otherwise awkward situation natural. She figured it had something to do with his confidence.

She would not be testing that theory today, however, and luckily enough remembered that she still had another spell to show him.

"I have also been practising the Levitation Charm," she said tentatively, and as the boy nodded for her to continue, she took a deep breath, getting herself ready. This spell was considerably harder to perform, at least with little practice.

When performing Lumos, all you really had to do was push your magic through the wand, say the incantation, and light would appear. It was easy because every spell or charm that pushed magic through the wand would make the tip light up in one or another colour.

To perform the levitation charm, however, you had to carefully visualise what the spell was going to do, while correctly pronouncing the charm and performing its wand movements. If your concentration fell for even a short moment, everything would come crashing down. At least in her experience.

Pointing her wand at a twig on the ground, she flicked and swished her wand like she had learned.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

She carefully visualised the twig rising into the air in her mind, and slowly but surely it did. After a few seconds it had reached her wand arm, where it was now shaking considerably more than it was supposed to.

She couldn't lift it any higher. The higher the object rose, the more magic one had to push into the charm, and she was already at her limit. She slowly let the twig fall back down to the ground before she lost her concentration and embarrassed herself. She let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. That had definitely gone better than when she had showed her family, although it was still far from perfect.

While she would normally feel embarrassed at her lack of perfection, she actually felt herself waiting for his compliment. She knew it was coming.

"Amazing. That charm took me a week to get right." She was blushing again. "I would recommend trying to breathe regularly, though. When you hold your breath like that, it usually becomes harder to focus after some time. Besides, you won't be able to hold your breath when you have to cast even longer enchantments later on."

She nodded her head at his feedback. She had not really realised that she was holding her breath until she was done. It seemed an easy thing to fix, although she doubted that it was the entire reason for the twig's instability.

He flicked his wrist, and his own wand shot from the holster he had wrapped around his right arm. He caught it effortlessly, and performed the spell himself.

"Wingardium Leviosa."

His wand movements were perfect, and his pronunciation crystal clear. The twig rose up to the same height she had brought it to earlier, but a lot quicker, and it seemed a lot more stable. She knew he could lift it even higher, but his point was never to show off.

He casually turned his attention from the object he was levitating back onto her.

"After practising the spell for some time, the intention and execution becomes second nature. Being hyper-focused can help you learn the spell quickly, but is not practical in everyday use. Try to perform the spell again, but effortlessly. Stay relaxed and comfortable, and _know_ that your spell is going to work like you want it to. I have found confidence to be the best tool when performing magic."

The twig hadn't moved at all while he spoke, and with a slow, controlled motion of his hand, the twig slowly descended down to the ground, where he cancelled the charm.

Confidence, was this it? She took another breath of air, remembering what he said. _Confidence_. _Know that your spell is going to work_. Of course it was going to work, she was Iris Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived, and she had done this charm many times before. But this time, the twig was going to float quickly up, and stay completely still, just like Neville had done. She knew it would.

"Wingardium Leviosa," she said clearly, and the twig rose, faster than before. She breathed in, and out. As the twig reached its intended height, it stopped, and apart from a slight wobble here or there, it stayed in place, just like she had expected that it would.

Now for the hard part, shifting her focus off the charm, and onto the boy in-front of her. He had said she just had to _know_ that it would work, so without further thought, she looked at the boy.

The twig wobbled dangerously in the air, and she quickly returned her focus to the twig, and to upholding the charm. It seemed it was a lost cause however, as the twig fell to the ground and the charm broke.

Neville however, smiled. "That was a lot better than last time." As dejected as she felt at her failed attempt, she couldn't help but smile as well. Neville had that power.

"The trick is not 'to concentrate less', but to 'trust more' in your magic. Micromanaging a charm or spell is incredibly difficult, and sometimes you just have to give some of the control back to magic. If you let it, it will understand your intent, and that is usually more than enough. Trust that your magic will perform to your standards."

"Try it again, but this time if it fails, don't try to force your magic to control the twig, let it happen by itself. Its useless to tell the twig what you want to happen, tell your magic instead. Let magic guide you, and not the other way around."

The book had never mentioned anything about this, but then again it was probably different for everybody, and it sounded reasonable enough.

She did as he suggested, her magic would keep the twig stable. She trusted it to.

…

And to her great surprise it actually worked. A happy sigh left her. She had actually done it. Her father would be proud of her.

* * *

They had never really practised magic together before, well she hadn't really practised any magic at all before. They would usually spend their time talking, flying or she would watch Neville practice or perform magic for her. She liked this new change though, performing magic herself was something completely different than just watching someone else. Neville had been practising with a wand from the Longbottom family vault since he was four, and his experience and knowledge therefore far outranked her own.

She had been a little bummed that her parents wouldn't allow her a wand like his parents had. Whenever she watched him, she could see the joy it filled him with. She wanted that joy too. Wanted to experience the feeling of accomplishment that she could see on his face as he learned something new.

Luckily, it seemed he had enjoyed himself as much while teacher her as when he was practising himself. He was a good teacher. She had come a long way in just a few hours with him guiding her. She had mastered the Levitation Charm, and a few other easy, but convenient charms Neville had taught her.

Thinking back, she was rather dumbfounded that she had had so much trouble with the Levitation Charm. It is supposed to be easy, really. All one had to do was to levitate the twig off the ground. And it was easy, at least when you understood what _not_ to do. It all came back to intent. Your magic did what you wanted it to do, which meant the most important was to formulate your intent correctly.

What she had done wrong, was to try to control the twig directly, when it would have been a lot easier to just tell her magic to control it instead. It was a night and day difference. Previously, she had to subconsciously control every tiny movement the twig made in the air. Now, she left that control up to magic. She trusted that her magic would make the correct adjustments for her, which made her task a lot easier.

Neville had taught her to trust her magic further, giving it more control. It had resulted in a definite improvement in her charms, which she was thankful for. He still told her that there would still have to be some experimenting to get a lot of spells working for the first time, but that once magic had done them a few times and learned what to do it would be possible to hand the control increasingly back to her magic as her confidence grew.

Currently, they were sitting outside, watching the sun set in a beautiful concoction of colours.

It was Neville who broke the silence.

"Say, Iris, have you thought about joining the Duelling Team when we arrive at Hogwarts?"

"No, I haven't really had the chance to think about that yet. Do you think I could make it?"

"Oh, definitely. I doubt any of the new Gryffindors will know much magic at all when they begin. You are already far ahead of everyone."

"Not you though," she said, poking him friendly in the side. "You are always better than everyone else at everything you do." She envied him a little. Everything he did seemed so easy, but she knew it came from practice and hard work.

"So there is a separate team for first years, then?" she asked. She didn't really know much about the Duelling Club apart from its existence through her dad, and that Neville had told her earlier that he wanted to join.

"Yes, every house will have their own team for every year, including first year. There can be up to three duellists per house, although it is seldom beneficial to use all spots if the goal is to win the House Cup."

At her worried expression, he continued quickly. "My father told me that in his time, most teams usually only included duellers that they believed would win more often than not. You see, every duellist will fight all the duellist from every other house in their year. Every win earns your house 5 points. So by fielding bad players you would be giving up points to the other houses. While a good duellist would grant their house a lot of points."

He looked at her. "I think you would do really well. With some practise, I have a hard time seeing anyone beat you." She blushed again, he truly looked like he meant it.

"Okay, then. Say I were to join the team, what would be the first thing I need to do? I just got my wand yesterday, and I hardly know anything about duelling."

"Well, first of all, you are going to need this," he said. He took off the wand holster he had wrapped around his arm, and gave it to her.

She didn't know what to say. She had always wanted a wand holster for herself, and had thought about asking her father about it since he worked as an Auror, but it slipped her mind yesterday because of her excitement about finally having her own wand. She had been super embarrassed when she had to fish her wand out of her back pocket in front of the boy.

"I can't accept that, its a Longbottom heirloom!" she argued weakly. "It has probably been passed down for generations. It would be wrong for me accept it just like that!" She wanted it though, and she really hoped the boy would argue her into accepting the gift. He usually did.

Luckily, it seemed like he had seen right through her, as he held out his empty hand. He had probably caught her staring at it the few times he showed it.

"Then accept it as a gift from the family of Longbottom to the family of Potter. May it strengthen the friendship between our families."

It was a lot harder to deny a family gift, it was even considered dishonourable. Neville knew this of course, and she slowly caved in, extending her own arm, allowing him to put the holster on for her. His hand lightly brushed against hers as he fastened the straps, fuelling the butterflies in her stomach.

"Thank you," she said timidly. "I have always wanted a wand holster."

He smiled at her. Like he always did.

"It is possible to charm them invisible, although I am not at that level yet myself. You could probably get your parents to do it for you, but you might have some problems finding it if you ever decide to take it off."

Neville was always giving her these expensive gifts. She wasn't completely blind, she knew what they were. These were Gifts of Intention. She knew their parents had plans for them to eventually marry so they could join their families, and the Pure-blood standard would be for him to show his intent through expensive family gifts.

Her mother had told her many stories of how James had approached her with these gifts after she turned thirteen. But that was the point, no gifts were usually exchanged before the age of thirteen, while she would only be turning eleven in a few weeks. So technically, these weren't Gifts of Intention, but from everything her mother had ever told her, it did _feel_ like they were.

It irked her. Theirs parents were tying the knot for them, and without their consent, and by sending her all these gifts so far in advance, she would be hard pressed to decline the proposal when it finally came. Who she fell in love with and wanted to marry, should be her choice, not her parents. But, if she was to be honest with herself, she doubted anyone would be able to match Neville's charm or brains. If she could not live happily with Neville, chances were that she would find no soul that could ever make her happy.


	3. A Dream of Grandeur

**Published: 05/07/2019**

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 **HARRY POTTER AND THE POWER OF MAGIC**

 **I do not own Harry Potter, the world or its characters. They belong to J.K. Rowling.**

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 **Chapter 3: A Dream of Grandeur**

* * *

This was it. This was his shot to prove himself. _To get things right._

He had been given a golden opportunity. An opportunity unlike any he had ever dreamt of. And after realising exactly what his return in time meant, he had been on his hands and knees, thanking whatever holy being had decided to watch over him.

A lot of his time since then had been spent reflecting on his previous life, and the more he thought about it, the worse he felt. His mother and father had given their lives so that he could live on. And what exactly had he done with their sacrifice? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He felt so ashamed. What a great fucking way to repay their selflessness.

Not only had he sought Voldemort, believing he could win, but he had brought his friends with him, and convinced those at Hogwarts to remain. To fight. And to die.

With his defeat, he had let down the Wizarding World.

He had let down his friends.

But what hurt most of all; he had let his parents down.

...

But this time would be different. It was _already_ different. He had been sent back in time, with all of his memories and knowledge intact. And in just over a month, he would be returning to Hogwarts, ready to take the castle, and Wizarding World, by storm.

It had been a week since his Acceptance Letter now, and he had decided to spend that time recuperating. His days primarily spent eating, sleeping, and _dreaming_. He had wanted to spend that time planning his grand return, but no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts always wrapped back around to that same, beautiful, vision.

He saw himself; at the top of the world. His face would be gracing the front page of every newspaper and poster this side of the pond. The birds would be singing songs of his prowess, and the gossipmongers spinning tales of his heroics and unparalleled mastery of magic.

But unlike his previous bout of fame, it wasn't tales of the Boy-Who-Lived they were all touting, but rather those of Harry Potter. And that distinction meant everything to him.

He hated being famous for something that had been completely out of his control, and that he couldn't even remember. He had been heralded as their saviour when he felt more like the victim.

Their looks hadn't helped. He had seen it in their eyes, though few had dared to voice it. They were disappointed; he was nothing like the stories they were told. They thought — during his ten-year-long recluse at the Dursleys — that he was being trained. When in reality, he was hidden away from it all.

But he wouldn't disappoint them this time. He would prove to them — to everyone — that he wasn't just the Boy-Who-Lived. He was something else. Something far, far greater.

Here, he wouldn't be known for his survival, but rather for his victory. He would bring a wave of change with him. Signalling the end of an era, _and the beginning of another._

He usually had to stop himself there, so he didn't get too far ahead of himself. He had yet to get his wand back, let alone return to the magical world.

At the moment, he was nothing more than a broken, malnourished and mistreated ten-year-old. At least on the outside. Because beneath the facade, was the mind, knowledge and experience of a war-thorn seventeen-year-old.

He could already see the headlines. _A wonder child_ ; that's what they would be calling him. _Harry Potter, A wonder child unlike any other to have graced this earth._

At the very least, he would make his parents proud. They, who were watching over him from beyond the grave, would be disappointed in him no more. _This_ , he promised himself.

Harry took a deep breath to calm down again.

It had been on his mind a lot lately; these dreams of grandeur, but he was still not quite sure where they had come from. Why did he now suddenly value greatness, when he, his entire life, had favoured friendship and chivalry?

He could still remember the day he and Dudley had returned home with their first scorecard from school. He had worked hard and had been rewarded accordingly. He had felt so proud — 'Best in class Mr Potter!' — maybe there could actually become something of him after all! 'Work hard at school, and new doors will open up,' their teachers always preached. And that had been his dream then. _His dream of grandeur._

It had not lasted long. After proudly showing his aunt and uncle his grades, proving to them that he wasn't the worthless boy they always claimed him to be, he had been pushed forcibly into his cupboard. He had not been allowed out until school started up again the next week, with the promise to never do better than their Ickle Dudleykins ever again.

As the years went by, and the bullying and abuse grew worse, the concept of friends became more important to him. He found people to talk with and friendship soon blossomed. It warmed his heart to truly know someone at last, and it made him feel valued.

But like everything else he had ever cherished, Dudley and his gang were there to rip it apart. But they couldn't rip it root and stem; he would always remember how happy it had made him, and how desperate he became for more.

And his escape into the magical world had allowed him the reprieve he so sought. He couldn't care less for fame; he wanted friends. And it was an opportunity to make exactly that, with no Dudley there to stop him.

But in the end, it wasn't 'friendship' that would win him the war. He had seen the power of Dumbledore and Voldemort and knew he would never beat either. He had survived their first encounters through sheer luck, but when it ultimately came to fight, however, he would have been absolutely slaughtered.

Not only were they far more powerful, but they also held knowledge he would never even dare to dream of. He had felt so hopeless then. He had been fighting a lost battle and knew it would lead to his death. And yet he still brought his friends.

Looking back, Voldemort had been right all along. When push comes to shove, nothing else truly matters; knowledge, power and experience stand above all. It was sad that it had taken being on the receiving end of Voldemort's wand to make him see. But now he understood. And he didn't want a repeat performance. This time, he wanted to live.

And the first step to his resurgence was his reintroduction to the magical world. He had to re-acquire his wand, find a place to live, buy some books, and start learning. Which was why he was finally heading for Diagon Alley.

* * *

His legs were aching and his entire body hurt. He had been walking for hours now, and it had definitely taken its toll. This was something he would never do again. Not in this wreck of a body at least.

In a way, it was a reality check. Being trapped in a small room for an extended period of time had the adverse habit of warping your perception of reality. And this was just another reminder that he wasn't the demigod he had been dreaming of lately. Far from it even; he was _weak_.

Rounding another corner onto Charing Cross Road, he saw the familiar, old pub; The Leaky Cauldron. Thank _God_ , he had finally made it.

A sigh of relief escaped him, for however much he had been dreaming lately, the only thing currently on his mind was to find something to eat, to get some fresh, new clothes… to _shower_. He imagined it would be like being born anew, which, he reasoned, he technically had.

With little left to do before returning to the magical world, he crossed the road and entered the pub.

Whatever he had expected to happen upon opening the door, nothing was not it. Nobody shouted out his name or came to shake his hand. Not even the barkeeper — who held a great view of the door — allowed him a glance. They continued on as they had before, blissfully ignorant of their saviour's arrival.

He had a hard time wrapping his head around it. He knew he was smaller, but he still very much looked like his previous ten-year-old self. Maybe it was just too early in the morning for the patrons to care about such trivialities as to who arrived at the door. Either way, it was so very unlike his first visit and his experience with the society of Magical Britain in general. But then again, walking around unrecognised could definitely be used to his advantage.

Whatever he preferred, it would all be decided for him in a second, as he would have to ask the barkeeper to let him through to Diagon Alley. It only took one to recognise him, and last time, that person had been Tom.

If it wasn't his infamous scar that did it, he was certain that the striking similarity to that of his deceased father would. He also had his mother's eyes — or so he had been told — thought they definitely lacked some of the vibrancy that he had become used to.

Behind the counter stood Tom, the friendly and approachable barkeeper. Said barkeeper was currently tracing a finger through a thick tome while noting things down in another. As engrossed in his work as he was, he had not yet noticed the new arrival.

As tentatively as any shy ten-year-old would, Harry made his way over. This would be his first encounter in the new world and he was determined at making a good first impression, but he would still endeavour to act his age.

"Excuse me, Sir," Harry spoke up, gaining the barkeeper's attention.

It was weird hearing his own voice like this again; thin and squeaky. He had not done much talking since his arrival at the orphanage, and this must have been the first time he had actually heard his new body's voice. But like everything else, it was something he would just have to get used to. It would change in a few years either way.

He didn't have any specific strategy in mind when approaching the man but decided to try and keep the discussion short and to the point, while putting as little emphasis on himself as possible. And so, with the intention of finishing the conversation before it really had started, he quickly continued. "Could you…" he began, but the man interrupted him, with a look of knowing and recognition in his eyes.

 _This is it. My plan has already fallen apart._ He had never been a convincing actor, or good at manipulating others for that matter, but he couldn't help but be a bit disappointed in himself.

It also suddenly struck him then that he didn't actually need Tom to open the door; anyone with a wand would do, including random passersby. He could have hit himself for not thinking of it earlier.

"Beginning Hogwarts, too?"

Harry froze. It didn't _sound_ like he had been recognised. In any case, it was a far cry from the jump the man had performed during his initial arrival with Hagrid.

In his short lapse of focus, Tom had strode around the counter, before signalling for Harry to follow him. Either not recognising him freezing up for what it was, or mistaking it for nervousness.

"Diagon Alley is this way," he said. Turning a corner, and disappearing through a back door. Whatever it was he had been doing before, it seemed he would rather continue doing that, and wanted this digression over with quickly.

They ended up in the pub's small backyard, with a decidedly out-of-place brick wall, but little else. He had of course seen it before, so wasn't overly surprised when Tom quickly tapped the correct bricks with his wand, causing the wall to rearranged itself into a neat archway; granting them access to the magical alley.

"Thank you," he said bluntly. It was as much an honest expression of gratitude, as it was a subtle hint of dismissal.

The barkeeper smiled down at him. "I am always glad to help aspiring young witches and wizards. You will have to excuse me, though, I have some important work that I would rather not put off any further. And someone has to watch the pub."

"I understand, Sir. Have a good day." Harry nodded his head in the man's direction. Despite his wish to get away from the man, it never hurt to be nice.

"And to you as well, young man."

With that, the two parted ways. Harry stepping through the archway, and into the magical world, while Tom retreated back through the door, and to his work.

Harry took another deep breath to centre himself. While spotting the Leaky Cauldron after his long walk had been a relief, it was nothing like what he was feeling now. It felt like he had finally crossed the last hurdle in his effort to re-join the wizarding world.

Here he stood; in front of the magical alley, and ready to begin his magical journey anew. Only this time, he would be better. He would work harder and he would learn as much about magic as he could. And his first step along his new journey would be to reacquaint himself with his wand.

Well, technically speaking, he had to tolerate a short squabble with the goblins, and a quick trip down the infamous Gringotts rollercoaster, before he could grace the wandmaker with his presence. But after _that_ , he could go get his wand.

Spurred on by his new vision of grandeur, he strode down the magical alley.

The shops were as unique, colourful, and magical as always. All fighting for his attention through dazzling displays and exciting capabilities. It truly was a captivating experience walking down the alley and looking at everything the different shops had to offer. However, these dazzling displays were seldom synonym with that of necessity or productivity, and therefore something he would have to pass by; lest it was to deviate him from his holy grail.

No, it would be best to ignore those shops altogether, focusing instead on those that mattered. Like the goblin bank, or Mr Ollivander's wand shop.

He had stopped outside the aforementioned boutique, unable to stop his urge for a quick peek.

He had meant to continue onwards, down to Gringotts, and get his business done there first, but _something_ had made him stop. He didn't know what, exactly, but something told him that this was important. That this couldn't be delayed. _Or_ , he mused, it could have been that he just really wanted his wand back.

From where he stood on the street, the shop looked completely empty — with neither customer nor wandmaker in sight. Had it not been for the sign signifying otherwise, or his earlier experience with Mr Ollivander's sudden appearances, Harry would have thought that the wandmaker had just not opened up for the day yet.

But, as much as he wanted his wand back and as much as entering the shop felt the like the _right_ thing to do, he didn't have any money on him at the moment. And as such, it was rather useless just standing there, staring through the window of the empty shop — longing after an old friend that he knew lay only a few dozen feet away from him now. This was the closest he had been to his wand since his jump back in time, and as such, he allowed himself a short break to reminiscence.

About to continue down the path to Gringotts, he took a quick look around, taking in his surroundings once more. In the time he had spent walking down from the Leaky Cauldron, and his short daydream outside the wand shop, the street had slowly started to fill. He dreaded to think how full it would be by the time he was done at the goblins'.

That was another reason to get his wand quickly, and arguably the best one yet. Hagrid had brought him his letter on his birthday, July 31st. But July 31st also happened to be the last day to accept the invitation to the school, which meant that everyone had most likely already been down to get their wands and school supplies. While the regulars would always be roaming the alley, no matter the time of year, few of them were shopping for wands. This had allowed him the comfort of testing wands at Ollivanders all alone.

This time, however, his letter's delivery had not been thwarted by his deranged uncle. And as such, he now stood in the alley weeks before he had done previously. And seeing as the letter was just a few days hot off the press, the street would quickly fill up with first-years and their families, the children unable to wait any longer to get their supplies.

Whatever he would end up doing, standing still was not one of the options he contemplated. He had begun receiving a few quick glances from the passersby, something he was very keen on avoiding at the moment.

Considering it felt like the right place to be, and his need to make a choice rather quickly, he followed the path of least resistance. Stepping forward, he opened the door to the wand shop and went inside.

As he entered the shop, a small bell above him rang, announcing his presence.

He had to take a deep breath to steady himself as the memories came back. It had been years since his original visit and he had completely forgotten how unique and truly one-of-a-kind this place actually was.

Boxes upon boxes of wands filled the shelves along every wall in sight, and long corridors, that somehow seemed to run forever, revealed countless more.

But there was also something else. Something he had not felt the first time he visited. Maybe he had just brushed the feeling off or misidentified it in his excitement at learning that he was a wizard and seeing Diagon Alley for the first time. It was almost as if he could feel the excitement of the room; hear the wands whispering to him. _Breathing_. Almost as if the room itself was alive and desperate to speak with him. He could not pinpoint or hear the wands individually, but as a collective, they were difficult not to notice.

"Hello there Mr…"

He was startled from his thoughts by the wandmaker, who had the uncomfortable penchant for making people jump, appearing when you would least expect it.

As he took in the new arrival, their eyes connected, and for the first time that Harry could remember, the wandmaker seemed lost for words.

"Oh…"

Like anything else in his life, he had not really thought this visit through. How would he introduce himself? How would he pay for the wand, when 'this' Harry Potter technically had no knowledge of either magic, his heritage or the rather large vault beneath the goblin bank?

His indecision only served to feed the pregnant pause, in which Mr Ollivander cocked his head to one side, looking all the more like he didn't trust whatever it was his eyes were showing him.

It was the wandmaker, however, who found his voice first.

"Mr Potter."

His grey eyes lit up, and a smile seemed to take shape.

Stepping around the counter, he made his way over. Stopping uncomfortably close, he reached out with an old withered hand, parting the boy's long hair to reveal his jagged, lightning scar.

No words were said; the old man just stared. Although his smile seemed to falter slightly.

After some time, Mr Ollivander seemed to regain his composure, retracting his hand, offering it instead for him to shake.

"Welcome back, Mr Potter."

Unsure of how exactly he was supposed to respond to the statement, he decided to act oblivious. He wasn't supposed to know of the magical world, or his part in it, after all.

"Erm… Thanks?"

He shook the offered hand.

"Garrick Ollivander," the man introduced himself.

Despite the man's old age and fragile look, the handshake was firm. Firmer than he would have liked.

Mr Ollivander seemed to fumble for something in his robe, finally retrieving his infamous measuring tape. He left it to unfurl in the air, allowing it to do its thing.

"Every legacy begins with the wand, and so you have come seeking yours."

He turned back towards his shelves, considering where best to start for his new customer.

"Which is your preferred wand-hand?" He said, never leaving his eyes off the boxed wands in front of him.

"I am right-handed, Sir."

The measuring tape finished off its job between Harry's nostrils, before rolling itself up, floating over to the wandmaker's desk, queuing Mr Ollivander to reach for one of the many boxes.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Potter. Every single one."

Taking off the lid, he presented the rest of the box to Harry. "Give it a wave."

Harry did as he was told, or he tried at least. Before he had the chance to give the wand a wave, it was snapped from his hands and put back into the box.

"Perhaps not."

The box was put back in its previous spot and the wandmaker continued his search.

"Erm… Mr Ollivander." The man made a sound of acknowledgement to let him know that he was listening, still too preoccupied to turn around.

He hadn't really thought about how to put it, but it would be best to get it over with as quickly as possible.

"I don't have any money to pay for a wand," he said. He wasn't supposed to know about his trust vault, so thought it best to leave it out. In any case, Mr Ollivander would be able to tell him about Potter's economic position.

The wandmaker waved him off. "Not to worry Mr Potter, I can send a statement to the goblins. It should sort itself out."

Well, that had been simple.

"Ah, let's try this one."

He had retrieved a second box, opening it to reveal another rather bland wand. The man stopped just before him yet again, presenting the wand, hilt first.

Harry accepted the wand. But yet again, the wand was snapped out of his hands before much waving could occur, prompting Mr Ollivander to turn around and continue his search elsewhere. This time browsing the shelves to his right.

Harry had already gone through this once before, and it had taken quite the while then. And so far, there were no signs that this would proceed any faster. It was an opportunity to work on his patience. He only had to wait until Mr Ollivander presented him with his trusted holly and phoenix feather wand.

Almost as if the peculiar man had read his mind the wandmaker spoke up, continuing his earlier little monologue.

"I am sorry to say that it was I who sold the wand who so brutally split your family apart. Yew, thirteen and a half inches, with a phoenix feather core." He turned around, fixing Harry with his pale stare. "Unyielding."

It seemed he had found another wand for him to try, as he made his way forward, once more stopping a bit closer than comfortable, but never breaking the eye contact.

"An extremely capable wand," he whispered. The man was starting to creep him out again.

Harry accepted the presented wand but was yet again left disappointed by its lack of reaction. It too was snatched from his hands and returned to its place on the shelf.

After first acquiring his holly wand in his previous life, he had found, and used, multiple other wands, including both those of his friends and those of his foes. If they had worked just fine, how come none of these wands could give even the tiniest of reaction? Why could he not feel his magic inside him while holding these wands? Was it a first-wand thing, or had he left his magical abilities in the afterlife? He desperately hoped it was not the latter.

"It just so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather empowered said wand, gave another feather — just one other. Holly, eleven inches, nice and supple."

He had heard most of this before, but it didn't stop him from listening in eagerly. He had never imagined wand lore to play as an important part in the war with Voldemort as it had. But now that he knew the complications that came with the twin-wands and the incredible power of the Elder Wand, he was committed to learning as much as he could. And who better to learn wandlore from than Mr Ollivander himself?

The man in question seemed to have pressed another wand into Harry's hand, retrieving it before he even realised.

"And, what happened?" Harry asked. He knew what happened, of course. It was waiting in the back of his store, ready to rejoin its master.

The very thought excited him.

"I sold it," he said simply. "Just then."

Had he not had his back turned to look for another wand, Mr Ollivander would have seen Harry's slack jaw and unbelieving stare.

Sold?

Crushing down on the depressing thoughts that began to invade his mind, he quickly shut his mouth and blinked to regain control over his watery eyes. But the sadness that filled him, at effectively the betrayal of his wand — _HIS_ wand — meant he couldn't _not_ ask. He had to know more.

"Why? Wouldn't it make more sense if the wand was given to me?"

Mr Ollivander turned around slowly, examining the boy before him. Said boy had started to sweat slightly, afraid that he might have said too much. Mr Ollivander had the uncanny ability to understand more than he was supposed to, and he wasn't exactly helping what with his loose mouth. This Harry wasn't supposed to know about his survival or that of the twin-wands.

"One might think so, but it is the wand who chooses the wizard, Mr Potter, not the other way around. You will do well to remember that."

His wand was gone, his trustful holly wand. If it had been sold, that meant that this new world he had just joined, despite its similarities, was inherently different. That wand had been given to him for a reason, it connected him and Voldemort. Did this mean that there was a different Boy-Who-Lived here? But Mr Ollivander had just insinuated that Voldemort was the culprit behind his scar, splitting his family… No, it had to be something else.

He fished out yet another box, the fourth one — or the fifth. Harry couldn't really remember, his thoughts far, far away. Not that it mattered, as it, like all the ones before it, was quickly pulled away.

The old man shook his head, deep in thought, his eyebrows almost connecting on his wrinkled face. He stood there for a few more seconds, in silent contemplation, before shaking his head. "Curious… how very curious…"

As he made his way back towards his shelves, Harry couldn't help himself, and blurted out, "Sorry, but what's curious?"

Once more, Mr Ollivander had turned around and fixed him with his creepy, pale stare. "You, Mr Potter, are not responding to any of my wands." All the colour drained from Harry's face; his worst fears coming to life. "It seems we are going to be here for a while," the wandmaker stated.

He could feel his heart beating in his chest. Every magical child's nightmare was unfolding before his very eyes. Without a wand, he would never be able to perform magic again, and worse yet; he wouldn't be allowed into Hogwarts.

It had looked similar in his first life as well, countless wands reacting negatively to his touch. But they _had_ reacted. One had shattered the ugly vase on the counter, while another sent boxed wands flying through the building. But in the end, his trusty holly and phoenix feather wand had come through. There was no holly wand to accept him this time, though.

It was not meant to be, it seemed, as Mr Ollivander continued to pick wands from the shelves, presenting them to Harry, before placing them back where they came from, none having given as much as a sign that they were the least bit compatible.

Just a tiny reaction was all that was needed, anything at all really, for the wandmaker to know what direction to move in. But so far, the wands were not much more than sticks of wood in his hand.

And as Mr Ollivander had just retrieved the thirtieth wand from a dejected Harry, it seemed he must have given up as well, as he did not make another run for the shelves.

"It seems that you were not meant for any of my wands." He shook his head slightly, at a loss for what was going on. In all of his and his ancestors' history, the Ollivanders had never before failed to serve a customer.

"We have tried every type of wood I have to offer, all the way from Acacia to Yew, and all the different magical cores my ancestors and I have pioneered." He scratched his head slightly. "I must say, Mr Potter, this is a first."

There was another pregnant pause following that statement, in which Mr Ollivander turned around and looked longingly down one of the store's many hallways.

"But not to worry, we will find you a wand. And if not, then I will just have to make one." Having seemingly decided on how to proceed, he signalled with his hand, "Follow me, if you will, Mr Potter."

At these words, Harry's world filled with colour once more. Taking a big breath to get his nerves under control, he followed the wandmaker, careful to keep his shaking legs from giving away beneath him. This emotional journey was not the rollercoaster he had prepared for.

Mr Ollivander, oblivious to the thoughts running through the head of the boy behind him, led the way into a separate room in the back. The room was a mess of equipment and half-finished wands, with quick drawings and arithmetic calculations adjourning every surface possible. At either side of the room stood two massive shelves, again stacked with journals, rolls of paper and briefcases, these too only haphazardly labelled — if at all.

Mr Ollivander stood in the middle of the room, contemplating the best way to proceed; his eyes darting excitingly between his cluttered workbench and the many briefcases.

"I do actually happen to have a few more wands for you to try."

Walking over to one of the shelves, he took out a few of the briefcases and brought them over to the table. With a sweep of his arm, all the tools and wands he had been working on clattered to the floor. For a man practically living and breathing wands, he was decidedly sparse when it came to actually use them.

"Each briefcase contains wands from famous wandmakers all over the world," he explained. "It was these wands that I studied when I first began learning about the art of the wand."

Deciding on a briefcase to start with, he pushed the others to the side. Brushing a bit of dust off the lid, he opened it to reveal twenty beautiful wands.

"These wands were made by Shikoba Wolfe, a North American wandmaker. Most known for his beautifully and intricately carved wands," he said, picking up one and showing it to Harry. They were indeed beautiful, far more so than those Mr Ollivander had made himself.

"He pioneered the use of Thunderbird tail feathers as cores in wands. Since the wand gets parts of its attributes from the magical substance, wands made of Thunderbird tail feathers can be extremely powerful but are also decidedly trickier to master. Because of this, they are especially sought after by practitioners of Transfiguration. There are even myths of Thunderbird wands performing curses on their own in especially dire situations."

The wandmaker looked longingly down at the wands. He was not the only one, as Harry had almost lost his breath, too, looking at the beautiful wands before him.

He had heard of Thunderbirds before in Care of Magical Creatures and knew they were dangerous but powerful beasts. A wand made with one of their tail feathers wouldn't be half bad.

As he made to reach for one of the wands, Mr Ollivander stopped him.

"Considering your incompatibility to all of my other wands, we are going to be doing this in a slightly different manner. To hopefully speed things up a bit. There are too many wands for you to go through them one by one."

"What I instead suggest, is that you try to reach out to the wands with your magic. If any of the wands respond to your call, you can try it out."

Harry, however, had been lost in the old man's explanations and was looking at the wandmaker questioningly.

"How would one…"

"Just move your hand very closely over the wands in a sweeping motion — left to right — while concentrating on your magic. If they find you suitable, you will know."

Doing as he was told, Harry reached forward with his hand once more, letting it hover half an inch above the first wand. Taking a breath to steady his nerves, he slowly moved over the remainder of the wands.

The first few wands were eliciting no reaction whatsoever, and the anxious feeling inside him grew once more. He had just been given the perfect opportunity. How many got the chance to try out wands from Mr Ollivander's personal collection? Here he was, with foreign, powerful wands, and none of them wanted him. It truly was all too good to be true.

He was through his tenth wand now, and none of them had thrown him any response at all. Had he truly lost all his magical power? Was that the reason behind his wand-trouble? But he _had_ received his Hogwarts Letter, and according to Hogwarts: A History — or at least according to Hermione's rendition of Hogwarts: A History — the Hogwarts Book of Acceptance had never accepted a squib before.

He moved his hand over the next one, only to find another dead wand. Just like the last. Or worse yet, the last forty-something wands he had tried that day.

Drawing some breath, he tried to calm down a little. He was just overreacting, everything would be fine, when the day was over he would have his wand.

Another dead wand.

There were just a few wands left int the briefcase now. He closed his eyes and prayed to all the gods.

Another dead wand. He moved his hand to the next.

Then, suddenly, he felt something tingle deep inside him. Something that felt eerily like magic. Opening his eyes, he slowly reached for the wand, grasping around it with his tiny, frail fingers, lettings its power flow through him.

"Oh-ho! I believe we have a match!" Mr Ollivander cried out. It was not weird that he was elated, they had been going at it for the better part of two hours now.

Harry, however delighted he had at first been, was no longer smiling, and was instead downright scowling at the wand. It felt _weird_. He could feel its power, yet it also felt so distant. He would probably be able to force some magic through it, but it was not going to be pleasant by any means. Neither for him nor the wand.

"I don't know. It doesn't feel right," he tried to say, doing some weird motions with his hands that did in no way convey what he truly felt.

"But it is a perfect match!" Mr Ollivander exclaimed, and Harry could do nothing but cringe at the exasperated reaction from the wandmaker.

"Well… the wand wants me, I can feel that, yet it is unable to fully connect with my magic."

He was thoroughly let down. He had been so excited when first introduced to these foreign wands, but now he was back to feeling dejected. The wand reacted to his touch alright, which was some consolidation, but it didn't feel as connected to him as his previous wand had felt. In fact, it felt vastly inferior.

Mr Ollivander, who had little experience with heart-broken eleven-year-olds — something about working at a very successful wand shop — broke the silence, and tried to uplift the mood.

"I have a few more briefcases that we can go through. If none of those wands produces a match you can try to get used to the one you have there, or I can make one myself."

His spirit slightly lifted, Harry moved back to the briefcase and worked his way through the remainder of the wands.

Not reacting to any of Wolfe's other wands, Mr Ollivander closed the briefcase and swapped it with another.

"These wands," he began, "were made by Violetta Beauvais, another American wandmaker. Her wands, however, were made from Swamp Mayhaw wood and a core of Rougarou hair. They have a natural affinity for Dark magic."

Harry cringed again. This was definitely not the kind of wand he would want to be associated with. The Boy-Who-Lived, a Parsletongue in disguise, with a wand partial for the Dark Arts? No, it would not go down well.

His entire body tense, he slowly swiped over the wands, eternally relieved when none of the wands connected with him.

"Not those it seems," Mr Ollivander supplied, before swapping the case out with a third, this time of wands by one Johannes Jonker.

"These wands are easily identified by their mother-of-pearl inlay, and a core made from the hair of a Wampus cat, with an affinity for …"

As much as he wanted to understand and learn about wands, it was hard to listen in any longer. The promise of more wands to try had lifted his spirits, only for it to absolutely plummet at the realisation that none of those wands wanted him either. It was truly crushing.

Besides, he knew a little about the Wampus cat from one of his Care of Magical Creatures school books and didn't need to know more than that the six-legged, XXXXX classified beast was very, very dangerous, and that if you ever saw one you'd probably already be dead. Which did leave the question of how the hair was collected…

Not connecting with any of those wands either, Mr Ollivander brought forth the fourth briefcase, probably with wands from yet another American.

He had completely tuned out the wandmaker by this point. He wanted to learn more wand lore, but there was only so much of the old man's dry theory one could take, especially in his rather dejected state. And besides, everyone in Magical Britain had wands made by some Ollivander, and seeing as none of these exotic wands were about to connect with him anyways, there was really no reason to learn about wands he would never meet again.

Moving his hand over the briefcase, he began the sweeping motion once more. Considering the many briefcases that now so eloquently decorated the floor, he believed he had the gist of it down. He would be sweeping his hand slowly from left to right over another set of wands, none of which would provoke even the slightest of a reaction from him. Next briefcase. Rinse and repeat.

Which was exactly how it went down yet again. Not that he minded terribly, the current set didn't look like the most exciting of wands. Maybe the Thunderbird wand truly was the one meant for him? And instead of the wand being weaker, or unwilling to serve him, it was his magic that had failed him? Had his weaker body affected his magic? Mr Ollivander certainly seemed to think that the wand chose him alright.

So, was this the truth of it? He had been sent back in time, only to find that his magic wasn't what it used to be. All of his beautiful dreams, foiled at the first hurdle... What was the point in bringing him back, if he was also given this massive handicap?

The sudden realisation made him stop cold. This life he was now leading, it was not the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity it had seemed at first glance. This- This was his punishment. Everything from his broken body, to the vast decrease in magical power, it was how he had to atone for his earlier shortcomings. For failing so miserably in his last life.

A dream of grandeur… It had all been a lie.

In this timeline, he wouldn't be the wunderkind that he had so dreamt of. Instead, he would be known as the bust of the century. The people of Magical Britain were looking up to him — had been for the last century — unbeknownst of both his sickliness and abysmal power. They were in for a nasty surprise. He would not be their saviour. Not like this.

 _No!_ He couldn't be belittling himself like this. He had to be strong. Given enough time, he would find a wand. It might not be from this briefcase or the next, but after the day was over he would have his wand. Mr Ollivander had even promised to design his own if nothing reacted. He just had to believe in himself, and in his magic. Fate might have set him up for humiliation. But fuck Fate. He would show them. He would show _everyone_ , gods and lesser beings alike. That nobody messed with Harry Potter. That nobody could control him. He _would_ conquer magic, and nobody would be able to stop him in his quest!

And then he felt it — a slight tingle in his hand — just like with the Thunderbird wand. His heart must have skipped a beat as the relief washed over him. Could this be it? This beautiful… red and brown wand? With a core of …? He now very much wished he had entertained the wandmaker in his dry lore. Asking the man to repeat himself meant revealing that he hadn't really paid him much attention. But it looked like he just had to eat it all up. He would be keeping this one.

Timidly, he reached for the wand, his fingers carefully clasping around the magical stick. The hairs on his neck rose as the beautiful, familiar feeling finally washed over him once more. He could feel the power moving up his body and through his arm — finally released from the shackles that had held it since his return — and connecting him to the wand.

Mr Ollivander was whooping in joy as he witnessed the connection forge itself. It was not nearly as frightening of an experience as some of his earlier customers, but it was formable never the less.

He saw the boy close his eyes and sigh, as he revelled in the fulfilling experience. His shoulders dropping a noticeable few inches in relief after finally finding a perfect match.

But Mr Ollivander should have known that it was never meant to be this easy. The boy that stood in front of him had been missing for almost ten years now, and nobody knew what had happened. He had been presumed long dead, and when even the Potter family had moved on; his death had officially been acknowledged as the unfortunate truth. But here he stood; as thin as a stick, clothes far too large to be his own, and a wand in hand.

Magic was dangerous, especially in the hands of the desperate. He should have realised earlier. He should have called for help. He could have had Dumbledore on hand.

But it was all too late now, as he watched the boy open his eyes again, only to reveal two pure white orbs staring back at him. Ollivander froze in terror. He knew just what now stood in front of him, but it only served to traumatise him further.

...

Harry staggered, not prepared for the absolute onslaught on his senses that followed the coupling. His entire world lit on fire, as powerful waves of pure magical energy released itself inside him, manifesting up, and through his entire body. It was pushing out to the edges of his skin, dangerously close to breaking free. _Violently_.

He had to warn him — Mr Ollivander. Tell him that it wasn't safe. Tell him to run. That he was about to explode.

And he tried. He tried with all his might. But no sound escaped him. Not that he was aware of, at least. All his concentration was spent on keeping the magical surge from breaching his shrewd defences and releasing from his body. So much so that he had long ago lost his connection to reality. He didn't even know if the wandmaker still stood there or not. He hoped not.

Mr Ollivander, though, had in fact not moved. He was rooted to the spot out of sheer fright, and could only stand and watch in terror as the boy — no, _monster_ — in front of him begun to vibrate. An ear-splitting scream, that no boy his age should ever be able to produce, filled the room, and his form distorted as wave upon wave of oppressive magic was released into the room.

A devastating magical wind quickly picked up, forcing anything in its path aside. The work table got overturned and sent flying into the wall behind it, the briefcase and its wands broke on impact. Mr Ollivander was thrust from his feet into the wall behind him, impacting with a loud _THUD_.

Complete pandemonium broke loose, as boxes, wands and equipment flew everywhere. Entire shelves were ripped from the walls, and the doors into the room were blown off their hinges. Their remains either decorating the hallways outside or feeding the magical wind.

The only thing remotely close to its original position was the boy, who had fallen to the floor, screaming, with garlands of black energy emerging from his body; his new wand clutched tightly in his hand.

Eventually, the exhaustion became too much, and the boy drifted off unconscious…

* * *

The day had been going as good as could have been expected for James Potter so far. He had started off the day by answering some mail and had just finished up his team's report from their excursion last week. All in all, it had been a productive first few hours at work, which meant that the rest of his day could be spent with his feet on the desk, a cup of tea, and this morning's issue of the Daily Prophet. At least until he ran out of newspaper.

With the important work done, and baring any summons for the Aurors, there was generally very little to do at the Auror Office. They had other tasks to do as well, of course, but they were usually older, and a lot less important. And frankly, they were often best left undone.

There were numerous loopholes in Magical Britain's laws and infrastructure that many in the pureblood elite took advantage of, and that many in the Pureblood elite wanted to take advantage of for years to come. While he would usually not stand for the blatant corruption, especially in his own department and at his own hands, said pureblood elite could be dangerous people. He had already lost one of his children to their machinations, and he would not risk the rest of his family unnecessarily. And besides, it never hurt that they paid more, for less work.

They did get summons every now and then, though, and as the second-in-command, it was usually his job to dispatch a team to get the work done. While he usually left the grunt work to some of the lower-ranking Aurors, if he ever became too bored, or the work required became too important, he could always choose to lead the missions himself.

But with his immediate work done, and little going on at the moment, he resigned himself to reading the newspaper. He had glanced at the front page during breakfast, but never got the chance to actually read any of it.

By the looks of things, their fabled and esteemed Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, was talking up his own accomplishments again. The man had been floating around the idea that he deserved an Order of Merlin, First Class, for some time now, and was using the newspaper to butter himself up before the magical society.

As the minister, it was within his right to award himself the honour, although highly frowned upon. That had not stopped his predecessors, however, and nor did it seem to stop him. Which was why he was currently floating the idea around. As the newly elected minister, he had not had much time to leave a mark on Wizarding Britain, and certainly not any of 'outstanding bravery or distinction'. But by introducing the concept early, he could moderate part of the backlash for when the time was right.

Personally, James found all of the politicking rather tiresome. He had thought becoming an Auror and working for the ministry would put him in a position to make a change, while also keeping his job lively and fun. But so far, he had done nothing of the first, and little of the second.

And now, he just wanted away from it all. Magical Britain still sorely needed change, but that change would not come without a cost. A cost he was not willing to pay.

There had been a lot to grieve over for his family in the past few decades, and wherever he could avoid it, he so desperately did. It had all started as a fight against the Dark. But after watching family, friends and loved ones die, it had quickly developed into a fight against oneself. Every day had been a fight, where he constantly had to remind himself to live for the good moments.

It was his family that gave him that joy. Coming home from work the other day, sharing a quick kiss with his wife, with promises of more once the kids had gone to bed. Hugging Rose, and listening as she excitedly spoke of all the things she had been up to that day. And then when Iris had arrived, indulging him in the tales of her adventures with Neville. The look in her eyes as she relived her perfect day to him. _That_ was what he lived for.

A happy sigh left the man.

They had been doing a lot better lately. The war was but a distant past, and its repercussions, while not forgotten, whisked away by the hope of a better future. And right now, the future lay in the hands of his two daughters.

Rose and Iris.

By his very nature, he was unable to favour any of the two. Time spent with either warmed his heart equally. He usually got to spend more time with Rose, though, due to her love for flying, and just high adrenaline situations in general. Iris was more like her mother, preferring a good book over the exhilaration from a fast broom. Not that there was anything wrong with that, he loved Lily more than anything on this earth after all.

Because of all of her work, Iris was doing outstandingly well. Far better than he had at her age, at least; no doubt spurred on by Neville, and the time she spent with him. If what Sirius had told him about his own daughter was anything to go by, not everyone was as motivated, or capable, of drinking up so much theoretical knowledge at that age.

Their first-year school books _had_ been written for eleven-year-olds, alright, but that didn't do her work justice. They were difficult to understand, even for him. Not that he had ever been theoretically inclined. But he liked to believe that he understood a little bit more than the average eleven-year-old.

Loud footsteps echoed through the hallway outside; the only warning he got before his door suddenly burst open.

"James!"

He had scrambled to hide the unopened newspaper beneath his finished report, but recognising the voice of the intruder, knew he was in the clear either way.

"Sirius, it is good to see you!"

James stood up to prepare a cup of tea for his best friend and colleague but was quickly interrupted by the man, who seemed to be in a hurry.

"No time, James. Frank is waiting for us by the Floo. I'll fill you in on the way."

Sirius looked nothing like his normal, playful self, having instead equipped his more aptly named 'serious' Auror face.

James had been around the man long enough to learn his visual cues and knew that this was not a face the marauder could keep for the life of him. He knew exactly what that meant.

While following his friend out of the room, he double-checked his battle robes and wand holster.

"There's been a bit of a commotion at Ollivanders," Sirius began.

"The usual?"

It wasn't so unusual for a wand or two to go miss-behaving — Mr Ollivander couldn't always be right on the first try after all — but that was usually left for the newer Auror recruits to settle out. Sirius and Frank wouldn't have dragged him out for that.

"No," came Sirius' reply, as they hurried along the corridor towards the dedicated Auror Floo. "There's been some sort of explosion in his shop. We don't know much more than that."

They had reached the Floo, where Frank Longbottom stood waiting.

"Sirius filled you in?"

James gave a nod, indicating that he had.

Frank picked up some Floo Powder in his hand, the others following right behind.

"We will be Flooing into Flourish and Blotts, the closest we'll get, and move from there," said Frank.

Stepping into the Floo, he threw down his powder, spoke his location, and was whisked away in a flash of green flames.

Sirius was next, with James bringing up the rear.

...

They appeared in quick succession at Flourish and Blotts. It was a busy day for the book store, with students no doubt preparing for their upcoming year at Hogwarts. It was no small feat to make their way through the crowd, but they got there in the end. Having made their way outside, they continued down the bustling alley.

Because of the crowd, they knew little of what to expect before they drew level with the wand shop. But after arriving at the scene of the crime, it was clear that whatever had happened was worse than usual. The windows that overlooked the alley were shattered, with pieces of broken glass littering the street outside. Despite the damage, nobody seemed to have done anything to repair it or help in any other way.

While the Aurors were thankful for any help they could get, nobody wanted to leave their magical signature at the scene of the crime — understandably. And since most crimes involved magic in some form or another, it usually meant that magic was required to reverse the damage too. It was therefore often easier for passersby to just continue past, and let the Aurors do their job.

Fortunately enough, the Aurors _could_ use magic to affect the scene, as long as they had seen enough to bring it up for pensive review later on.

One fluid swish of his wand later, and the broken glass had reconstituted into panes, which he carefully stacked along the wall; they would have to be refitted later.

Frank, who had arrived first, finished up a set of intricate detection spells. He wrinkled his nose slightly, but the coast seemed clear and he proceeded to make his way inside.

Seeing nothing amiss, he followed Sirius, who was making his way through the door before him, into the shop. An involuntary shudder escaped him as he felt the magic of the room enveloped him. The room reeked of dark magic, a far cry from the inviting atmosphere that had met him during his last visit, just a few days earlier.

He took a moment to compose himself, and it was first then that he truly had the chance to take in the room. From the outside, apart from the blown-out windows, nothing much had looked amiss. From the inside, however, he found a room that looked nothing like the one he had brought his daughter to.

Large rolls of parchment, with what could only be intricate drawings of wands and advanced arithmetic calculations, littered the floor. Boxes that so infamously used to stack the walls, lay scattered everywhere. And wands had fallen out of their containers, adding to the chaos.

It would be a nightmare for the wandmaker to sort out. No spell he new could match wand to box, and there were literarily thousands of them. The wandmaker probably had something up his sleeve, he had originally stocked the walls after all. Luckily though, nothing seemed broken. Wands were not as easily reparable as glass panes.

But where was the wandmaker? Where were his customers?

The enveloping, dark aura was a strong hint at what must have happened, and wounds from the Dark Arts could be hard to treat. In cases like these, time was usually the differentiator between life and death. Had it not been for the apparition restriction inside both the ministry and Diagon Alley, they could have been here far, far sooner.

 _Homenum Revelio!_

The practised charm revealed four shapes within the ward's boundaries. Two of which stood right next to him, and another two further into the building.

He made sure to quickly look around, and take in all of the details for pensive review later on, before following his charm along the hallways. If the increased feeling of dark magic were anything to go by, he was heading in the right direction.

He was led down another long corridor, and immediately knew he had come to the right place. The concentration of magic was so high that the very air itself felt volatile and had become noticeably harder to breathe in. Giant black scorch marks could be seen along the walls and floor, oozing smoke of the same colour, no doubt residue from the magical performance that had sent them here.

Whatever must have happened here, James was starting to feel like he was in over his head. In all of his years as an Auror, he had never seen anything like this before. And the ominous vibes sent a chill up his spine.

The door looked to have been ripped clean off its hinges, its remains now decorating the floor between them and the offending room.

"Holy hell," Sirius muttered behind him.

He had to agree with that assessment, this was definitely not what he had expected when he had been called. The information had been vague, and he knew that they had all been curious about what they might face before they arrived, but this was as far from what they had expected as was possible.

All they had known going into this, had been the reported explosion from the wandmaker's shop. Had he known that this was what they were about to face, he would have brought more Aurors.

Despite Sirius' initial warning at the ministry, he had thought it little more than an aggressive wand-reaction to an incompatible customer. But this? There was enough dark magic to leave lasting residue. Either the old man had been experimenting with something that was far beyond him, or someone had deliberately attacked him, and at the moment, he did not know what he hoped for more.

He raised his wand in preparation and took a few tentative steps forward, reassured when his life-long friends and partners followed just behind. Stepping over the rubble from the broken door, they slowly made their way inside.

The room that met them lay in absolute ruins. Had the walls not been reinforced with magic, they would surely have collapsed just like everything else. All of the shelves, that he could only presume had lined the walls just moments earlier, were now broken down to primitive shards of wood and spread across the floor.

The only thing left decorating the walls, he noticed, were those same long gashes of mysterious black energy that they had seen along the hallway outside. Only here, they dug deeper into the walls and seemed far more concentrated.

In a weird, morbid-sort-of-way, it looked like the walls were weeping. Whereas outside, where the long gashes had slowly oozed black smoke, here, they were practically dripping. The black smoke seemed to coalesce, forming heavier spheres of the same substance until they fell to the ground from the sheer weight. But they would never quite reach the floor, as the energy seemed to run out, and the drops would dissipate into the air.

He had to be honest with himself, he was very, very afraid at the moment. He had never seen anything like this, and he was very unsure whether to continue into the room or double back for reinforcements.

Wands, equipment, journals, … _everything_ was on the floor, just like if a tornado had run rampage through the room. And in the middle of it all, lay a small boy, with jet-black hair and an overly large t-shirt. The boy had curled himself into a tiny ball as if to protect himself from whatever the hell must have been going on. He couldn't see the boy's face from here, but it didn't look like someone he knew. Thank God for small mercies.

He stopped dead in his tracks, not noticing that his feet had unconsciously been carrying him towards the little boy. Black tendrils, similar to those along the walls, rose ominously from his body.

Had he been a victim of the calamity? Or was he the cause? Had he been infected by whatever dark magic was at work, or was he doing the infecting?

Against his better judgement, he took another step towards the boy. He seemed unconscious enough. _Or worse?_

He heard movement behind him and turned around. Sirius and Frank were slowly digging Mr Ollivander out from beneath one of the many broken shelves; levitating objects out of the way to clear a path.

Just like the boy, the wandmaker looked unconscious. Although with him, the cause seemed fairly obvious, as a pool of blood had gathered beneath his head. It didn't look too deep. Nothing magic couldn't fix.

Unlike the boy, however, no dark smoke or tendrils could be seen rising up from Mr Ollivander's body. It didn't take a wizard to put the two together. With the way his feet pointed, towards the centre of the room and the boy, it looked like Mr Ollivander must have been thrown forcefully across the room and into the wall behind him.

He heard Frank cast a Stasis Charm on the wandmaker as he turned back to his own charge. The man would at least not bleed out while they worked.

Inspired, he performed a few detection spells on the boy. He had no idea what the perilous, black tendrils were about, but he would be keeping both hands and wand far, far away. Luckily, he didn't need any contact to perform his spells.

And as far as the spells could tell him, the boy was in no lethal state, either. He was, however, magically exhausted. It all leant credit to his increasingly probable theory that the boy was somehow behind this entire episode.

Stepping around the boy to get a better look, he noticed something he had not spotted earlier. In his hand, tucked into his side as if to protect it at all cost, was a wand.

He understood what must have happened, but he had no idea _how_ it had happened. How could a boy so young do so much damage? And why where they in here testing wands?

However, before he could wrap his head around the conundrum, footsteps could be heard from the front room. Sirius and Frank must have noticed as well, as they had both stood up again and pointed their wands at the doorway. They were not expecting company.

Appearing at the other end of the hallway, in one of his many customary, long, flowing, and colourful robes, was Dumbledore. Although contrary to his usual appearance, he now looked extremely alert and tense, his wand held high, pointing straight into their room.

James felt his own wand hand falter slightly at the frightening sight that Dumbledore's imposing frame radiated.

Despite being held at wandpoint by the most powerful wizard alive, and the only one that could confidently wipe the floor with all three of them simultaneously, James couldn't help but sigh in relief. If there ever was something that scared him, it was working with unknown magic. But now, Dumbledore had come to save the day. If ever there was a wizard to call for help with the mysterious and archaic, Dumbledore was the one. For him, it was but a pastime.

"Step away from the boy!"

It was a testament to the immense power and influence the old man held when the three Aurors immediately stepped away from the boy; turning their wands instead to the previously-thought harmless figure, that still lay unconscious on the ground.

Dumbledore advanced further into the room to get a hold of his surroundings. He did not look the least surprised at the damage of the room. Instead, he seemed regretful and forlorn, as if the result of whatever the hell must have happened had been nothing but expected.

His gaze landed on the unconscious wandmaker.

"Get Mr Ollivander to St. Mungo's, I will check on him later."

Sirius, being the closest, nodded at the powerful wizard, and levitated the wandmaker out of the room. He knew that his best friends would fill him in on the important details later.

They had all been part of the order led by Dumbledore during the war and trusted him explicitly. So, when Dumbledore fell into the leader role, they were happy to oblige; despite this now being an official Auror case, where the Mugwump — in theory at least — had little to no authority. In any case, the ministry would understand. They usually gave a lot of leeway wherever the powerful wizard was concerned.

Dumbledore seemed unsure about what to do with the boy but settled on a set of detection spells, just like James had himself, only far more advanced.

He waved his wand in intricate patterns over the boy, that lost both of the Aurors watching in its complexity. They both knew that this was magic that they would never learn.

Nothing seemed to happen, however. But maybe that was the point.

"It is as I had feared," Dumbledore murmured, shaking his head.

Having seemingly decided that the danger was gone for the moment, he put away his wand — even after proclaiming that 'it was as he had feared.'

With a heavy sigh and a look of renewed determination, he turned around to Frank and James. His startling blue eyes caught theirs, silently communicating the importance of what he was about to say.

"Nothing about what has happened here leaves this room."

The two Aurors could only nod in response, although still not quite sure what actually _had_ happened.

"If anyone asks, this was just another accident concerning a temperamental wand and a bit of accidental magic."

James and Frank both understood the hidden meaning behind his words; the ministry could not know about this. Whatever it was, it had to be kept quiet, no matter the cost. But to understand exactly what it was they could say, and what they couldn't, they would have to understand more about the situation at hand. By the look on Dumbledore's face, though, it seemed that he had been thinking along the same lines.

He held up his hand to hold back their questions, needing some more time to formulate a reply. A reply they both knew would only contain half of what the knowledgable wizard really knew. Enough for them to understand his concern, but not enough to connect the pieces themselves.

"The poor boy has a condition," Dumbledore began. It looked like it pained him to talk about it. As if this was somehow bigger than just the boy.

"… That the ministry would kill him for if they knew."

An involuntary gasp left him at Dumbledore's words. The ministry never killed if they could help it. Hell, even werewolves, who had one of the most dangerous conditions witches or wizards were known to have, were allowed to live. They were not exactly welcomed into their society, but they were certainly not _killed_.

Whatever the boy had, it was _bad_ ; evident in the overwhelming destruction that could be seen around the room. But he doubted that it was the destroyed shelves that Dumbledore had alluded to. The deep cuts and marks around the room were still seeping that same ominous, black smoke, and would no doubt become the main benefactor in the boy's prosecution if it ever came to that.

Dumbledore's announcement had only brought more questions than it answered, however. So he elaborated. "He has suppressed his magic to the point where it questions his suitability as its master. His magic believes it knows better and wants to take over. To control him. Something his body is obviously refusing at all cost. He is, essentially, in a constant fight against himself. Where concluding a winner, whichever one it is — him, or his magic — both will result in his early demise."

Another shocked silence enveloped the two Aurors. After a deep breath, which allowed James to centre his thoughts, he decided on how he wanted to proceed.

After the first revelation that Dumbledore had made about the ministry's point of view, he had decided that maybe it was best not knowing. But after learning of the fate of the poor boy, he felt it was only right to learn as much as possible about his condition, as it would allow him to better understand, and to stay proactive wherever the boy was concerned in the future. And at the moment, that meant asking Dumbledore about a glaring hole in his logic that he had just realised.

"But why? Why did he suppress his magic, to begin with?" James asked. To a pureblood who had grown up not only knowing magic but also grown up with magic all around him, a life without it seemed almost not worth living. But to _choose_ a life without it? The boy must either be absolutely mental or not knowing what it was he was giving up.

"Yes, there is something here that doesn't make sense," Frank shot in. "And to add to that; if he hates his own magic, and constantly tries to fight it, then why has he come here to pertain a wand, when its only function is to enhance and focus said magic?"

The obvious, but abstruse question brought the powerful wizard up short. And James had to agree; Frank had certainly brought up another good point.

"To answer your question first, James," Dumbledore said. He turned his head to look back down at the boy. A sad look marred his face.

"Of those who are so unfortunate as to develop the condition, I surmise that most were forced into suppressing their magic, for fear of their own, or others' lives."

"It usually signals a very tough upbringing, with oppressive guardians. With the first bout of accidental magic, the guardians are frightened, as the unknown power threatens their autocracy. The child is punished, and after a few repeat performances learn to suppress their magic in fright of further incidents."

Dumbledore took a deep breath to centre himself. He was usually very composed, but something must have shattered his facade. From his facial expressions, it almost looked like he was reliving some very painful memories.

It was first now when discussing the dour consequences of a condition he never knew existed, that James truly saw how old the man had become. Dumbledore would be celebrating his hundred and tenth birthday later this year, but it was first now that he realised exactly how old that was. To James, he had always been a symbol of immense power and wisdom. To know that some of that might soon come to an end frightened him. Powerful witches and wizards were known to live longer, but their power always faded when they got on in age, and this was the first sign he had seen that the power behind the legendary wizard wouldn't last forever.

He turned around to face the two men and loyal, important members of his order during the war.

"Which leads to your question Frank; why had he come here to buy a wand?" He ran a hand through his long silver beard, contemplating the most likely scenario.

"I believe he received his letter from Hogwarts, and there learned exactly what this mysterious power of his was — just like all of the other muggles who first receive their letter. It must have fuelled his escape of the reclusive tyranny that he had always known. To run away from a future only promising more pain."

A dour mood had befallen them, putting them all into a deep trans as they contemplated his words; something Dumbledore did his best to correct. "But I am only hypothesising, it might be something completely different altogether."

James took the hint and tried to bring the conversation onto a more neutral topic. "How come we have never heard of such a condition before?"

If the grim look on the old man's face were anything to go by, his new topic was anything but cheerful.

"Throughout history, no-one is known to have survived the condition," Dumbledore answered.

"It is only a lucky few who live to see their tenth birthday." His pained expression was back, and James had to grimace at his own tactlessness. "Though it certainly doesn't help when governments all over the world are hunting them down for slaughter," Dumbledore continued, with a bit more conviction to his voice.

"Thankfully, considering how much more civilised the muggle world has become in the last few centuries, the rate at which the condition pops up has seen a colossal decline."

He sighed again.

"I had hoped to have witnessed my last case during the war against Grindelwald, but it seems that yet another unfortunate soul has fallen victim to the dastardly curse." He shook his head sadly as if to clear it from the bad memories.

James had been intrigued when the man had revealed to have lived through another case, but liked to believe that he had learned from his previous error, and decided to keep his musings to himself. It seemed to pain the man greatly to talk about, and therefore not something that he was about to bring up. Dumbledore would reveal it in his own time if he wanted to.

"So there is no way for him to heal?" James blurted out instead.

"Not that we know of, no. The fact that he has survived this long is a miracle in itself."

The definite answer, and the realisation of what the boy laying on the ground before them was destined to, shook him. He couldn't help but feel sad for the boy but was at the same time immensely relieved — no matter how selfish it was, or heartless it made him — that it was not one of his precious children laying there on the ground. Iris and Rose were both growing up to be fantastic women in their own rights and to learn that either one of them was destined to die before even seeing their eleventh or tenth birthday would have killed him inside.

In an attempt to shake off the dark thoughts, he joined Frank in exploring the damaged room.

Dumbledore, however, was not interested in the damage. He had seen it all before. It was the poor boy that filled his thoughts.

He knelt down by the unconscious figure and put a hand on his shoulder; gently turning him over on his back. In their fight against the depressive thoughts, neither James nor Frank registered Dumbledore's sharp intake of air.

In his quest to know more, Dumbledore parted the bangs of the boy, revealing a jagged, lightning scar that flitted across his forehead. It reeked of dark magic, and its shape held an ominous resemblance to the wand-movements of the infamous Killing Curse.

It was, ironically enough, only his disbelief that held him together at the moment, as he carefully moved a withered hand down to one of the boy's eyes. With nimble fingers, he parted the eyelids. Only to stare straight into a dull, green eye. It could only really mean one thing, no matter how implausible.

"Harry?" Dumbledore croaked.

That got the other two men's attention.


End file.
